


Fluff

by Jassy



Series: Fluffverse [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderfluid, Multi, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:22:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23179918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jassy/pseuds/Jassy
Summary: Post season 1, episode 6, Jaskier is on his own and wanders accidentally into a witch's garden. He's been doing his best to keep his head down and avoid Geralt, just as the man wished, but the witch claims that destiny has other plans for him and decides to lend it a helping hand.Please try not to judge the title. I can't think of a better one and it will likely change as i get more written and something more appropriate comes along.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Fluffverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684402
Comments: 78
Kudos: 497





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Couple quick notes. First, I used the map here: https://atlasoficeandfireblog.files.wordpress.com/2019/04/the-witcher-map-1.png when plotting out routes and such. I'm not great with scale, so travel times are a little handwavey, but this is the map i used. Not sure if it matches what's in the show, since that's my primary source for cannon.
> 
> Second, there's a couple songs/singers that have been on repeat for me since I started writing this. You might like them.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BUpbpZTwuo  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SvBXEqgu6k  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_87_sp6ROs
> 
> And really just a bunch by Ashley Serena, actually. Haunting voice.

“What are you doing in my garden?”

Jaskier jumped and whirled to face the woman that had appeared noiselessly behind him. “Oh! Oh, hello,” he said, trying out a smile. The woman was beautiful – perfect in a way that he had come to associate with witches. The aura of power surrounding her added to the impression and had him on his guard. “Did you say your garden? I do apologize,” he hurried when his smile had no effect. “I got a little turned around in the woods, then spotted these lovely flowers. I didn’t see any signs or fences and didn’t realize this belonged to anyone. I’m pretty sure I haven’t trampled anything. If you could just point me towards a road – any road, really – I’ll get out of your hair.” He wasn’t afraid, per se, but he would admit to some serious anxiety. His experiences with witches hadn’t exactly been all that positive and he wanted to get away from her before his mouth ran away from him and got him into trouble.

“Hmm.” She walked closer and circled him, eyeing him up and down critically. “I could do that. You don’t appear to have damaged anything, nor attempted to take anything.”

“I considered taking one of the blooms,” he admitted, “but they are perfect, and it would only wither all too quickly if I had.”

“And you’re honest. Another point in your favor,” she said, sounding faintly approving. She stopped when she was facing him again, and her considering look faded into something stern. “However, there is the fact that you _did_ trespass, however unwittingly. Should I let such a thing pass, there would be no end of annoyances interrupting my work.”

Jaskier shrank back, clutching his lute. “Please, my lady, I swear to you, I would never tell a soul.”

“I believe you.” She gripped his chin and her gaze bored into his, poison green, pinning him in place. “I see. Oh, bard, you have purpose you’re avoiding. Destiny will have her way with all of us. There’s no running from it,” she crooned.

“Destiny? What destiny could I possibly have? I’m just – a bard. I’m nothing,” he protested.

“You are very wrong about that. Well, I can’t kill you, but you still need punishing. And I believe destiny would like a hand nudging you where you need to be.” Her grip tightened as she started whispering something in the Elder tongue. Jaskier screamed as his entire body was engulfed in flames at once – or at least that’s what it felt like. Then as fast as the feeling had come on, it left him. He huddled on the ground panting, eyes clenched shut. “Now, to put you where you need to be, Jaskier the Bard.” He shuddered, only more terrified for her knowing his name. There was a sound and then, somehow, he was being picked up. His eyes flew open in shock and stared at the witch’s face, somehow far bigger than it had been just minutes ago. She was holding him in the air _with one hand_. With the other she gestured, creating a portal. “I’ll watch over your things until you need them again,” she promised. “Off you go!” With that, she threw him through the portal.

Somehow he landed on his feet. All four of them. All four furry feet. Jaskier couldn’t help the mewling cry that should have been distressed swearing. Clumsily, with all four limbs wanting to do something different, he wobbled a few steps forward, looking around desperately for someone to help him, but he was in an empty alley. He could hear sounds of people nearby, sure enough, but judging from the stink of piss and old, sour beer, he doubted he was anywhere near another mage’s tower. He very much doubted that a small, poor village would have anyone even capable of realizing he wasn’t a – a – a whatever furry thing he currently was, much less doing anything about it.

He managed to make his way the few feet to the wall of what smelled like the pub and huddled there, shivering with fear and adrenaline. Slowly, far too slowly, he managed to calm himself down enough to get a good look at himself. Sleek brown fur covered him from tightly tucked tale to, presumably, his face. He flexed his fingers – toes – and wickedly curved claws dug into the dirt. That fucking insane witch had turned him into a cat – a cat! It made no sense at all. Jaskier knew very well that cats weren’t generally pampered, cared for animals. They were pest control only, and a cat that didn’t hunt wasn’t really wanted, and no one missed them if some larger animal carried them off for a snack. _What the hell kind of destiny needs me to be a cat!_

Frustrated and angry and afraid, he got to his feet and tried to work out how to walk on four legs instead of two. It seemed to work best if he didn’t think about, so after a few minutes he focused on his surroundings and carefully slunk along the wall to get a better look at the main street, hoping that he was at least somewhere familiar that he could use to orient himself.

His hopes, as so often in his life, proved in vain. While the village was familiar in the way that all small, dirty villages are familiar, he was almost completely certain that he’d never set foot in this one before. There was nothing, that he could see, that could have anything to do with whatever destiny the witch seemed to think he had. Not that he was giving much credence to that – he was a bard, not a hero. Destinies were for knights and mages and stupidly perfect witchers, not random bards. He was, at best, a minor footnote in the lives of others greater than himself. He told stories, he wasn’t part of them.

But assuming the woman had been crazy, and at least believed what she’d said, then it would stand to reason that she’d had a purpose in sending him to _this_ village. _Unless this is all just some grand joke to her, which is possible, and she’s somehow watching me right now and laughing her perfect ass off at me trying to figure things out._ Which he found just as likely, frankly.

Still, no solutions or ideas came to him, so he settled in the weeds against the front of the tavern to watch the village for a while. A few people walked by, going to and from whatever errands they had to take care of. It hadn’t been a good season for anyone, if the drawn, somewhat gaunt looks on everyone’s faces were any judge. The lack of patrons for the tavern reinforced that idea. In times of plenty, it would be bustling with folks going in and out, sharing piss-flavored ale and gossip. If it had been just a single lean season, people would still be inside drowning their frustrations and worries. The lack of patronage spoke of a long spell of hardship. People no longer had a single coin to spare for ale, however much they might desire the blunting effects of alcohol to ease their worries. Only a small handful of chickens, tattered and lean looking things, pecked around desultorily in yards.

He stayed hunkered there for most of the day, until the sound of hooves finally teased at his ears. A horse, in this village, that didn’t have an animal larger than a scrawny goat? His eyes narrowed in the direction the sound was coming from until the animal rounded the bend in the road. _Of fucking course,_ he thought bitterly, as the unmistakable sight of Geralt atop Roach came into view. He should have expected it, really. The only truly exciting things that ever happened to him always, **always** involved the witcher. Never mind that he’d been actively avoiding the man, that even a whisper of monsters or magic or Geralt himself sent Jaskier in the opposite direction, determined to never cross paths again. He’d spent half his life playing the fool, thinking that in spite of his grunts and huffs and what’d he’d believed to be bantering insults that he was actually friends with the witcher only to be cut down so cruelly that he’d actually checked for blood after.

The very worst part about laying eyes on him again was that Jaskier _still_ felt his heart leap with a spurt of joy in his chest.

Angry with himself, the witch, and the entire fucking world, Jaskier let out an involuntary hiss and started to squirm backwards towards the alley. Better to hide in the piss reeking shadows than let his path cross Geralt’s again.

Unfortunately, the hiss caught the witcher’s attention, golden eyes zeroing in on Jaskier’s. Jaskier froze, crouching with his tail tucked and ears flat to his head. If he stayed still, pretended to be the frightened cat that he knew he looked, Geralt _had_ to just ignore him. He couldn’t recall even once seeing the man go out of his way to pet a dog or cat, or really show affection for anyone besides Roach. Well, the horse and the freaky sorcerous with the freakier purple eyes.

It seemed to work. After staring Jaskier down until Roach reached the tavern, Geralt dismounted and ignored Jaskier in favor of entering the dilapidated building. Jaskier wasted no time in darting back around the side of the building and ducking into the least smelly patch of weeds that he could find. His sensitive ears picked up the sound of a couple people cheering briefly, followed by some weeping. The sounds of a monster well hunted, and a town’s unbearable burden lifted. Maybe the first bit of good luck in the whole miserable day – Geralt hadn’t been covered in blood and/or viscera, and it was still early enough in the day for travel. Unless Geralt was oddly flush with coin, he’d usually want to move on to the next contract rather than waste time in a town this small, where gratitude was more than likely to shift to unease, even after all the years of Jaskier working diligently to improve public opinion of witchers in general and this one in particular. Jaskier had seen it happen often enough, although it had been quite a few years since he’d last witnessed any actual jeering or spitting.

He relaxed a little in his patch of weeds, confident now that he had managed to avoid intertwining his life, mess that it was, with Geralt’s again. It would only be a few minutes more before the man would be striding out back to Roach, purse jingling with whatever small payment the village had been able to cobble together – or not, since he had also seen the witcher refuse payment in similar circumstances, damn his amazing ass for being genuinely fucking noble – and riding off down the road.

He was so confident that his yowl of shock when a gloved hand grabbed him up by the scruff echoed off the buildings on either side of them. He writhed, legs flailing out in an attempt to gain purchase on _something_ and accidentally met amused golden eyes.

“Well,” Geralt rumbled. “Aren’t you a little scrap of nothing? Why do you smell of magic, little one?”

Jaskier stilled, tail curling defensively over his exposed belly. Even if he’d had the use of words, what could he really say? The truth was simple, and genuinely not his fault, but he had no doubt that Geralt would still be angry and blame _him_.

“Well, whosever tower you used to live near doesn’t matter, I guess. This area is not for you, not for some time. It will take a few good growing seasons before they’ve grain stores enough to need pest control.” As though some mutual decision had been made, Geralt tucked him under his arm and strode back to Roach. The world swirled and bobbed for a moment as Geralt swung up into the saddle and settled Jaskier between his thighs. Roach started out at a brisk pace and Jaskier instinctively dug his claws into the leather of the saddle to maintain his balance.

Jaskier, in shock, just huddled there and watched the scenery drift by. Because, by all the gods above and below, Geralt had _just rescued a cat_. His battered, broken little heart throbbed, and if he could have, he would have cried. He’s hurt and angry with the bastard, where did he get off going and doing something so – so fucking sweet?

It was well after dark when Geralt finally decided to stop for the night. He’d chosen a small clearing off the road that had a lovely winding little stream running alongside. Trees and brush hid them from easy sight. With brisk efficiency, Geralt got Roach unloaded and left her to drink and graze her fill. Jaskier stayed huddled by Geralt’s packs, watching as he made a small fire. Golden eyes strayed towards Jaskier a few times, but there wasn’t anything more than mild curiosity there. No suspicion or irritation, so Jaskier concluded that he still didn’t suspect what was really going on. He’d heard somewhere that the animals that belonged to mages could absorb magic, so he supposed that made sense. He didn’t know how long that would last, though. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he could act like an actual cat. Even with what seemed to be certain bodily-ingrained instincts, he doubted he’d be much of a hunter. Not that he’d be able to force himself to eat a mouse or something even if he could manage to catch one. And he was pretty sure that he should have ran off as soon as they’d stopped, but, well. They were out of civilization at present. Predators were a given, and Jaskier was very, very small. As always, the safest place for him to be was as near Geralt as the grumpy bastard would allow.

Jaskier watched the flames with slitted, irritated eyes. It wasn’t _fair_. He’d worked so hard to stay away, to be fine on his own. He’d gone out of his way to be better at taking care of himself on the road, forgoing prolonged stays in any town the way he’d used to operate, just in case Geralt were to pass through. Staying on the move had been working for him. And then bam! One wrong turn in the woods and it all went to shit.

Maybe Geralt was right – he really was a curse. One that had nothing to do with insane witches.

Geralt disappeared into the trees for a while as Jaskier stewed. When he returned, he had a pair of hares dangling from one hand. Jaskier watched the familiar motions of him skinning and spitting them, and nearly leaped out of his fur when he suddenly tossed a chunk of raw meat towards him. Jaskier took one sniff and flinched away, repulsed by the way his body told him that it was a fine feast and he should immediately fill his belly. Present feline condition or no, he wasn’t about to eat raw meat!

Geralt studied him but offered nothing more than one of his usual “hm,” grunts. Jaskier crept up onto the pack that contained Geralt’s spare clothes to get away from the raw meat and settled back down. He kept a more alert eye on the man, though, in case further bits were flung in his direction. He found the idea of going for a swim strangely repellant, so he didn’t want to think of how he would get blood out of his fur. So he wasn’t startled when Geralt suddenly stood and walked towards him. He saw the hand reaching for him and tried to jump away, but witcher reflexes trumped newly feline reflexes, apparently, and Jaskier was summarily hauled into the man’s arms. He hissed and twisted to get free, but while the hold wasn’t painful, it _was_ inescapable. “Easy now, fluffball, everything’s fine,” Geralt murmured in a low, soothing tone that Jaskier had heard directed at Roach on the rare occasions the mare was unsettled. Geralt resumed his seat by the fire with Jaskier in his lap. Holding him there with one hand, Geralt reached for one of the rabbits and cut a chunk of roasted meat off. He blew on it for a moment before offering it to Jaskier.

It smelled _amazing_. Cooked and juicy and something that both his feline mind and human mind could get behind. Hating himself just a little more, Jaskier ate the piece right from Geralt’s fingers. With soothing words and patient motions, Geralt fed him fully half of one of the rabbits. “There now, that should start to put some meat on you,” Geralt approved. “You’ve had a rough time of it lately, skinny as you are. Not much for hunting, are you?”

_Fuck you_ , Jaskier thought spitefully, and shoved himself up and out of the cradle of Geralt’s lap. He made his way to the stream and crouched to drink his fill. He tensed a bit when Roach snuffled at him, well acquainted with her teeth when she was irritated, but all she did was get a good sniff of him then move to take her own drink.

With a full belly and his thirst quenched, Jaskier reluctantly moved back towards the fire. With his size it would be nothing for a large owl to carry him off. Or a hawk in the daytime. Not to mention fox or any other number of predators. Near the fire, and the witcher that seemed, inexplicably, to want to take care of him was the safest place to be.

Geralt seemed to not take offense to his standoffishness and simply ate his own dinner, burying the bones outside of the camp when he was through. He laid his bedroll out near the fire and stretched out and was asleep within minutes.

Jaskier, on the other hand, as tired as he was, found that he couldn’t sleep. Whatever purpose the witch’d had in throwing him right back in Geralt’s path, he was beginning to think the man was his best option. Not just until they reached the next village, but until whatever was supposed to happen to return him to a man happened. It was quite possible, even very likely, that sticking with him was the _only_ way to return him to human form. He wasn’t looking forward to that day, if that was truly the case. He wasn’t sure he could face the man’s anger again, didn’t want to hear his accusations and condemnations again. He still heard the original ones in his mind as he slept.

His other choice was, of course, to take the risk and strike out on his own. If he was careful and made himself get over his squeamishness about eating raw meat, he could probably manage just fine. And even if he couldn’t, maybe it would be worth it – better dying without having to hear Geralt tell him what a curse he was all over again, how useless and foolish he was for getting cursed like this.

He didn’t sleep the entire night. Both arguments kept chasing themselves around in his brain and made sleep impossible. In the end, though, he decided to split the difference. He would stay with Geralt until _Geralt_ grew tired of hauling around a useless cat. He didn’t think it would take long, and more than likely Geralt was simply keeping him close until he found a suitable caretaker anyway.

That thought, once he had it, made so much sense that he finally fully relaxed and allowed his eyes to slip shut as the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. He didn’t quite fall asleep, since the gradual brightening had Geralt stirring. Jaskier opened his eyes a slit to watch the witcher stretch and rise, then move off into the trees. He heard the faint sound of water hitting grass, then moments later the witcher returned still buttoning his breeches. Golden eyes fell on him and the faintest hint of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Still here then. Good.” That was it. He went about packing up with his usual efficiency, and before long Jaskier was once again swung up in a giant man-paw and deposited on the witcher’s lap as they road Roach onwards. Exhausted, and now resigned to the waiting game he was now playing, Jaskier let himself sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It took another three days of travel before they hit the next town. Geralt had taken the hint about the food and cooked anything before he offered it to Jaskier each time. And Geralt stopped to feed him often. Apparently, a skinny cat was of more concern to him than a skinny bard had ever been. But it was still nice. Restful, except for the way Jaskier felt the need to keep an eye out for anything curse-breaky about to happen, but it was still nice. On the second day of travel Geralt had begun absentmindedly running his hand down Jaskier’s back, ears to tail, which felt absurdly good, much to his embarrassment. Occasionally, his fingers would linger in a gentle massage just behind Jaskier’s ears, which, honestly, would have had him melting even if he’d still been human. The first time the gentle motion brought an honest to gods purr to his chest he’d startled himself into almost falling off the horse but for Geralt’s quick reflexes.

They reached the town close to sunset and Geralt headed straight for the tavern. To Jaskier’s surprise, he found himself slung up onto one absurdly broad shoulder. The leather was warm and made for a good place to grip his claws into, so it was actually a reasonable perch. Jaskier doubted bringing him inside would go over well, but to his surprise, the woman behind the bar took one look at the giant of a man carrying a skinny cat on his should and sort of cooed a bit. Not enough to offer free food, but the portion given over in exchange for coin was bigger than Jaskier would have expected. Geralt spooned out three large chunks of mutton from his overfull bowl of stew, sliced them into small pieces, and hand fed them to Jaskier in between his own bites. The large chunk of bread came complete with a generous smear of butter. It smelled good enough to draw Jaskier down from his shoulder to investigate more closely and earned only a huff of a laugh when he licked most of it off.

As he licked better remnants from his whiskers, a trio of loud, grumpy men stomped in. Startled, Jaskier found himself climbing right back up onto Geralt’s shoulder and half hiding under his hair. A soothing hand came up to pat his back gently until he calmed. And inside, yet again, Jaskier berated himself. Geralt shouldn’t be his go-to for feeling safe. Under the table would have worked just as well, but apparently all the years of running to the other man when there was a threat just…left their mark.

_He doesn’t want **you** , _he reminded himself. _He is going to be beyond furious if he finds out that his charity cat is you. **Don’t get used to this**._

But.

But it was so hard to remember that when Geralt’s hands were constantly gentle. When there were frequent little huffs of laughter that were anything but mocking. When he noticed that he was given the best parts of any meat they had, whether from a tavern or wild caught. When a sturdy chain of silver was wrapped around his neck and the jeweler that had made it had been told it would help protect against monsters.

Before too awfully long, Jaskier was curling up against the witcher’s stomach at night to sleep, whether they were on the road or in an inn. He was riding upright, eyes curiously watching around them, and openly climbing Geralt like a tree whenever he wished, not even considering how much more that would anger the man in hindsight when the curse was broken. With very town they entered, he felt apprehension that _this_ was the place Geralt would leave him, and every time they left, relief had him purring like thunder.

Geralt was certainly right. He was a fool, an idiot, and every other word for stupid that Geralt had ever thrown at him, because man or animal, he couldn’t help loving him no matter how hard he tried.

After more than a month of travel and several hunts, Geralt stopped for the night at an inn. Instantly, Jaskier hated the place. Had he been on his own, he wouldn’t have even considered playing. If he’d had the option, he’d have kept moving. If not, if it was late enough or the weather bad enough and he just couldn’t move on, he’d have paid for a room as quietly as possible and barricaded himself inside for the night. Some places just had that feeling, the hint of rot that had nothing to do with monsters of any sort but the human type. The innkeeper had a hard, thin mouth and cold eyes. Though Geralt _had_ to feel it too, he’d been making more of a point of staying in inns and eating at taverns everywhere than he ever had before. Granted, Jaskier doubted there was anyone in the whole town that could prove a true problem for the witcher, but Geralt normally did his best to avoid such places and bothers.

He saw greedy eyes looking over Roach and drinking in the fat, heavy look of Geralt’s purse. The innkeeper had no qualms about charging an extra two coins to allow Jaskier to stay inside, which Geralt actually paid without hesitation. At least he went straight up to the dingy, rather smelly room right off.

Jaskier was deposited on top of Geralt’s bag rather than the bed that smelled of too many unwashed bodies. “Stay here, fluff. I have to meet someone. I should be back soon,” Geralt promised. He slipped out the door before Jaskier could follow him, and the sound of the key in the lock was no comfort. It took a little while, but eventually he was able to unlock the window and nose it up high enough to slip out. On nimble feet he trotted along the sloped roof to perch above the inn’s entrance. He’d gotten used to his more sensitive hearing and sense of smell, and used it now to catch Geralt’s scent: something like clove and honey, mixed with horse and the oil he used on his swords. A few days out from his last bath, Geralt’s scent was pretty strong and the night breeze brought it straight up Jaskier’s nose. He ran along the roof until he could jump to the next one, and then the next one after that. Honestly, the one thing he would miss about being a cat was going to be his new agility. He was pretty fit, living life on the road, but it was nothing compared to what he could do as a cat.

He found Geralt, though not in time to see who he had gone to meet. The witcher was already making his way back. He _was_ in time, however, to see a gang of thugs, four strong, waiting with short swords gleaming dully under the half moon. Their eyes were locked on Geralt, and while four was a number easily handled, the crossbow one raised would definitely help even the odds a tad in the thugs’ favor. With a furious hiss and no real forethought, Jaskier leaped from the roof to land on the bald head of the crossbow wielder. For the first time, he put his claws to use for something besides clinging to either saddle or shoulder and clawed deep rents into the man’s scalp. The thug yelled and flailed wildly, sending the crossbow bolt up uselessly into the air. Jaskier was flung off of his head to land on the muddy street just feet in front of Geralt. Geralt instantly drew his sword and faced the thugs, who chose to charge all once even having lost the element of surprise.

Still furious, Jaskier threw himself back into the fray, dodging kicking feet to get around behind one of the men. He leaped and dug claws and teeth into the back of a meaty thigh, blood filling his mouth as the man let out a surprisingly high pitched screech of pain. Jaskier clamped down harder with his teeth as a tight fist grabbed him by the scruff of the neck to yank him away. The hand succeeded, but Jaskier came away with a chunk of flesh in his mouth.

Geralt quickly dispatched the men, though he didn’t kill them. They would need the services of a healer if they wanted their broken bones to heal correctly, though, and to minimize the scarring with stitches. They flung down their shoddy weapons and hobbled away as fast as they could. True to the feel of the whole town, no one came to investigate the fight.

Jaskier spat out the hunk of flesh, growling low in his chest and tail lashing. Geralt reached for him and for the first time, Jaskier gave him a proper swat, leaving four raised lines along the back of his hand. Geralt, of course, didn’t even blink. “What are you doing out here, fluff?” he muttered, picking him up and running a gentle hand along his sides, soothing his bristling fur and checking for injuries. “This is no place for you to be out and about. How did you even get out of the room?”

_You should have stayed in the room yourself if you didn’t want me out, you overgrown, empty headed brute!_ He swatted at Geralt’s face a few times, though he didn’t use claws. Geralt simply smiled and, astonishingly, rubbed his cheek along Jaskier’s head. “You are a brave little fellow, I’ll give you that. I hope you didn’t swallow any of that man’s blood, it’s likely to upset your stomach.” He used his sleeve to wipe away the blood from around Jaskier’s mouth before depositing him in his usual spot on his shoulder.

Just as though nothing had happened, Geralt strolled back towards the inn. He got dinner for them, a rather watered down stew that boasted a few sad hints of potato and some very grisly meat. The ale that came with it smelled so bad it made Jaskier sneeze, and the hunk of bread was hard enough that even Geralt, never very fussy about food, didn’t bother to try. True to form, he dug out the best pieces, which wasn’t saying much but still, and cut them up for Jaskier to eat. It was slightly better than the taste of blood in his mouth so Jaskier ate it. “Sorry fluff, we’ll find better tomorrow.”

Geralt favored both the window and Jaskier with hard looks when they returned to the room but he didn’t say anything and Jaskier didn’t notice any change in his behavior in the days following.


	3. Chapter 3

Their journey subtly changed directions as the weather started to boast a chill around the edges. Their thus far seemingly aimless wanderings, following contracts and stopping in every city, town, and three goat village took on a decidedly northern direction. Geralt still took contracts, but he wasn’t chasing down rumors the way he usually did. If they were already there on their path, he’d take it. Beyond that, he didn’t seem to be looking.

The further north they went, the colder the nights got. The days were shorter, and all too soon the leaves around them went from fiery reds and oranges to dull browns, and Geralt pulled out his cloak. Jaskier started to ride tucked up around the witcher’s neck, under his hair and the hood he pulled up. He wasn’t quite cold, exactly, not with the fur, but Jaskier had never been a fan of winter and usually tried to head south when the leaves began to turn. They weren’t in much of a hurry, but still, there was no wavering on direction. At least until the first snowfall. When Geralt woke to find a thin layer of snow on the ground, he let out a faint “hm” in a tone that Jaskier had always interpreted as ‘damn, not what I’d hoped for’, but with no real heat behind it. Jaskier didn’t know what the big deal was, it wasn’t that much of a snowfall, but there was an undeniable kick to their pace. They only stopped in one town, and that seemed to be mostly so Geralt could buy parchment, ink, and quills, as well as a large bag of sweets. He also bought a thick cushion made of wool, and Jaskier was sat on it as they road out of town.

The temperature dropped sharply overnight and didn’t rise much during the day after that. Roach, seemingly without Geralt’s direction, picked up her pace. They left the roads and began to cut through forest, heading into the Blue Mountains. Jaskier could think of only one place significant to Geralt there, Kaerr Morhen. But it had been sacked, so why would Geralt want to return there?

Jaskier had plenty of time to think, and when he considered recent history, he began to have a nagging suspicion about what – or rather who – would be waiting. Cintra had fallen. Though Jaskier had avoided the war, rumors had abounded across the continent. Cintra and her queen had fallen…but rumor said _not_ the lion cub. Geralt’s Child Surprise had apparently escaped, and there was a truly impressive reward for any information on her whereabouts. So far, none of the rumors Jaskier had heard linked Geralt with her, but he knew the man well enough to know that he would have heard of the trouble and felt compelled to head towards Cintra as quickly as he could. If peace had continued, or if Cintra had won, Geralt would likely have laid eyes on his Child Surprise. The girl had family and was loved and protected, and he would never have interfered with that. with her in danger, he would certainly, however grudgingly, felt responsible for protecting her. And the whole continent knew that Kaerr Morhen had fallen decades ago. But if it hadn’t, or if there was enough of the Keep left intact enough to be habitable…it would be an ideal place to hide the hunted princess away until she was grown. If she had inherited her mother’s powers, it would be an ideal place for her to train them, too. Since Geralt had been out traveling, that also argued for the presence of someone else there that he trusted to look after the princess, possibly another witcher.

Jaskier’s bardic soul thrilled at the idea of getting to meet another witcher, and of getting to go to the famed keep at all.

_Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why I’m part of this – my destiny. This is a tale that will echo down the ages, and perhaps it’s my job to make sure it’s told properly._

Jaskier found himself fervently hoping that was right, because the other option, that this was all just some cosmic joke at his expense, was too depressing in its likelihood for him to want to think about for long.

The walls of the great Keep rose out of the trees, dark and forbidding. Jaskier wasn’t sure, looking at it, what had actually been involved in the sacking, since the walls looked basically intact. He didn’t plan to ever ask, of course, he was pretty sure that, like the vast bulk of Geralt’s past, the sacking was something he would never want to talk about with anyone, least of all him. But he did wonder.

They entered the keep and Jaskier finally saw signs of neglect within, wooden railings that were broken and showed burn marks, scorch marks on the walls. But there was also a handful of chickens pecking around the yard, and when Geralt put Roach in the stable, two other horses. So there was definitely someone inhabiting the place, probably two, as he’d suspected. Jaskier couldn’t hide his eagerness and his toes flexed rhythmically against the leather beneath them, earning a swift stroke down the back and one of Geralt’s amused huffs. As they entered the keep, they were met by a tall, grizzled looking man with a medallion on his chest that appeared quite a bit older than Geralt. Another, older for sure, witcher. They gripped hands briefly, and Geralt was favored with a raised eyebrow at the sight of Jaskier on his shoulder.

“Picking up strays seems to be becoming a habit, Geralt. We don’t have a pest problem, why the hell did you bring a cat here?”

Geralt placed a steady hand on Jaskier’s back. “Can’t you smell the magic on him, Vesemir? I think he was some mage’s discarded pet. More, even if we did have a pest issue, he wouldn’t be much help. He’s shown no signs of wanting to hunt and won’t even touch raw meat.”

Vesemir looked even less impressed. “So you brought a completely _useless_ cat? Wonderful.”

Jaskier bristled a bit, ears going down as he glared at the man. He hadn’t been so useless when he’d taken a chunk out of that footpad! Sure, Geralt would have taken them even without his early warning, but he’d still saved him a hole from a crossbow bolt. “He isn’t useless,” Geralt defended. “He’s extremely loyal. And he’s used to magic. Ciri’s powers won’t frighten him. She’s young; she could use the softness you and I aren’t capable of.”

Vesemir threw up his hands. “Have it your way! He’d just better not stink up the place with his piss.”

Jaskier decided he really didn’t like the old man. Probably he was the reason Geralt was so fucking grumpy all the time. Jaskier tuned them out in favor of dozing as the men walked and talked. They settled in what had to be the Great Hall near the giant fireplace, Geralt slinging his travel cloak over the back of his seat. There was already a massive fire blazing. Apparently they really didn’t take the winter lightly in these parts. After a while, the sound of light footsteps approaching rapidly got his attention and he cracked an eye to see a young girl, fair haired and delicate of feature, come trotting into the room. “Geralt!” she shouted, sounding joyful and relieved. Her trot turned to a run and Geralt had to stand to catch her as she threw herself into his arms. “You made it! I was so worried you wouldn’t beat the snow.”

“I promised I would,” Geralt chided gently. He rubbed her back, then gently set her back from him, though he kept his hands on her shoulder. “How have your studies been coming? I’ve brought more parchment and ink.”

Cirilla, for it could only be the young princess, her resemblance to Pavetta was too strong for her to be anyone else, wrinkled her nose. “Well, I think. Some of the books are awfully boring.” Then she brightened. “But Vesemir says my sword work is coming along nicely!”

“And your other studies?”

Cirilla sighed, looking downcast. “Not as well. We still have to practice outside or we’re afraid I’ll damage the Keep.”

“You’ll get there. I know it. And look, I’ve brought someone to keep you company while you’re slogging through boring old books.” Geralt reached up and lifted Jaskier down to her eyelevel. “I met this fellow a couple months back. He reeks of magic, so he shouldn’t be bothered by your powers.”

Cirilla gazed at him with wide eyes. Jaskier gazed back. She reached out a tentative hand to stroke between his ears, so he butted his head up encouragingly. Cirilla giggled. When she reached for him he went willingly into her arms. There was a sadness in her eyes and the smell of tears on her face and he strongly suspected that she’d had little joy or comfort since losing her home and family. If he’d had his lute, he’d play for her all night just to make her smile. Since he didn’t, he settled for allowing her to hug him close to her chest while he purred.

“Well, he took to you quick!” Geralt smiled straight at Jaskier.

“He certainly did,” Vesemir agreed, sounding significantly more suspicious than Geralt. He reached a hand towards Jaskier’s face. Jaskier hissed and gave him a good swipe, not at all happy with the idea of the old man touching him.

Cirilla laughed and hugged Jaskier closer. “I don’t think he likes you, Vesemir.”

“So it would seem.” The swipe had clearly done nothing to ease the man’s suspicions. Jaskier found he couldn’t care less about that. As long as Cirilla and Geralt were fine with him, he didn’t think he had to worry about the older witcher attempting to kill him. Well, attempting and probably succeeding, he wasn’t fool enough to think he’d be able to escape a witcher truly bound to kill him.

The young princess kept close hold of Jaskier even as she took a seat for a more detailed catching up with Geralt that included successfully wheedling details of several hunts out of the man. She was definitely better at that than Jaskier had ever been, not that he was shocked by that at this point. Jaskier let his feet make the little kneading motions that they wanted to make, which seemed to delight the girl.

He was just really settling in, really starting to think the whole situation wasn’t so bad. Sure, it would be awkward to balance being supportive for the girl with not being creepy (it hadn’t escaped him that people didn’t really have compunctions about changing clothes or bathing in front of an animal) while also attempting to figure out how to break the spell keeping him as a cat. But then the doors to the Hall opened again to admit Yennefer. Instantly, he knew things were about to go to shit. They _always_ went to shit when she was around, and why by all the gods had Geralt allowed her around the princess? But of course, why wouldn’t he? So wrapped around her tiniest, chaotic little finger he couldn’t think straight, Jaskier thought bitterly.

Her gaze zeroed in on him almost instantly, narrowing ever so slightly. “Geralt, I don’t recall requesting you bring strays back. I have no need of such ingredients.”

Cirilla frowned at her. “He’s not _ingredients_ , what does that even mean?”

Yennefer’s gaze flicked to the girl and softened slightly. “It’s only a joke, dear.”

“I brought him for Ciri, Yen. He smells like magic, even after traveling with me for over two months. I think he was a mage’s pet, or at least lived near one’s tower. He’s a bit strange and doesn’t act like a regular cat, but he’s used to magic so Ciri’s power won’t alarm him,” Geralt explained.

“Why don’t you leave the magical theorizing to me,” Yennefer said bluntly. “You’re not suited to it. That is no cat – I know this spell, and I know the castor. That is a man.”

Both men reacted instantly, standing and pulling their swords.

Jaskier looked at Yennefer and saw her raise her hands. “Let’s see who this is, shall we?” she murmured.

_Well fuck!_ Jaskier jumped off of the princess’s lap and dashed over behind Geralt’s chair as Yennefer’s magic surrounded him. Once again, his entire body was engulfed with searing, burning pain. His feline yowl of agony stretched and shifted into a very human scream of pain, though it ended as abruptly as it began. Jaskier reached up from his position on the floor and grabbed at Geralt’s cloak to cover his nudity. His fingers were clumsy after so many weeks of being clawed toes, but he managed to wrap the cloth around himself. When he was decent, he dared to look up.

Geralt was openly shocked. “ _Jaskier?!”_

Jaskier licked his lips. “That was all so terribly unpleasant,” he managed. “Could somebody loan me some pants?”

Yennefer snorted. “What did you do to piss of Dahlia?”

“Was that her name? She never said. She also never put up a bloody sign or fence or _anything_ to indicate the boundaries of her garden, or I most certainly would not have stepped foot in it,” Jaskier said, more than a little hotly.

“So you pissed off a sorcerous,” Geralt sighed. “Why am I not surprised?” He sheathed his sword tiredly.

Jaskier got to his feet rather clumsily but managed to keep the cloak covering his delicates. “Right,” he said, voice low and full of venom suddenly. “Because I should have just magically known a random field of flowers belonged to some deranged witch? Of course. Why not?” His gaze passed over Cirilla, watching it all with wide, anxious eyes, and he swallowed down the poison that wanted to spill out. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then met Geralt’s eyes. He tried to make his gaze say all the shit he wouldn’t say in front of the girl. “The _only_ responsibility that I will take for this is that I chose, _years_ ago, to associate with you, which was apparently enough to get me marked as having some kind of bloody destiny. I was nothing but polite to her, I apologized for trespassing, but she decided that I had a destiny, slapped that curse on me, and dropped me into that sad little village to _wait for you_. It wasn’t difficult to work out that my best chance for breaking the curse was sticking with you, so if you wish to blame someone for this, blame _her_. **I** was just attempting to reach the next town where I had a contract to play. Now I’m stuck in the ass end of the mountains with _you,_ and **_no bloody pants!_** ”

“Oh, don’t get yourself all worked up, bardling,” Yennefer drawled. “I’ll fetch your trousers.” With a wave of her hand she created a portal and stepped through. Silence reigned for a couple minutes until she returned, bearing not only Jaskier’s pack and boots, but his lute as well. She passed them over. “You’re welcome,” she said airily.

“Thank you,” he muttered, actually rather grateful. He had missed his lute and worried that he’d never see it again. Not really a stranger to dressing under less than ideal circumstances, he managed to get his small clothes and trousers on. He threw the cloak at Geralt while he dug out a shirt and doublet, then finally put his boots on. Once decently attired, he finally turned to the princess again and bowed low. “Your Highness, you have my deepest sorrow for the loss of your family,” he said sincerely. “I’m so sorry for all that you went through. Your grandmother was an amazing woman, as were your parents.”

Cirilla stared at him for a few long moments, then her eyes filled with tears and she threw herself bodily into his arms, sobbing. Shocked, Jaskier wrapped his arms around her and rubbed her back. From the intensity of her weeping, it would seem as though this was fresh grief, not a grief a year old.

Geralt and Vesemir, who had yet to sheath his blade, looked supremely uncomfortable, while Yennefer bore a bland, inscrutable face. “Ciri, Ciri, come now, hush,” Geralt mumbled. “Don’t cry so.”

“I’m so-so-sorry,” she hiccuped. “I’m tr-trying!”

“Now sweetness, you go ahead and cry,” Jaskier soothed, glaring furiously at Geralt. “You loved them and they were taken from you, it’s perfectly okay to cry for them.” He shuffled over and sank down into Ciri’s vacated seat, rubbing her back and letting her cry herself out, glaring at the pair of seriously uncomfortable men watching. Eventually, the storm ebbed and Ciri calmed to little snuffles and hitched breaths. Jaskier pulled out the handkerchief that he kept in his doublet and dabbed at her cheeks and nose. “There now, feel a smidge better?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be, sweetness. You’ve reason to cry and all the right in the world. I cried for days and days when my grandmother died,” he said gently. “I was no older than you when I lost her. Sometimes I _still_ cry for her. The missing never goes away, but it does get a bit easier to bare. Someday, the memory of her will make you smile, even if it still brings tears to your eyes,” he promised. She gave him a watery smile. “Now then, why don’t you go and give Geralt a kick until he hands over the bag of sweets that I **know** he bought and go have yourself a lie-down. I’ll wager you have a bit of a headache after letting that out.”

Geralt, apparently startled, eagerly dug into his pack for the sweets and handed them over. Yennefer wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulder to guide her out, murmuring something quietly as they went.

Jaskier stood and lifted his chin, meeting Geralt’s gaze squarely. He did love the man, but he was undeniably angry and hurt, and had fresh fuel for the fire of his anger after what he’d just seen. “You massive oaf! The pair of you!” he added, including Vesemir in his ire. “ _’Don’t cry’?!_ What kind of thing is that to say to a grieving child?”

“Crying about it won’t change what happened,” Vesemir shot back. “She needs to focus on her training, not get weepy about the past.”

“Ha! Let me guess, he trained you, didn’t he?” Jaskier demanded of Geralt.

“Well, yes,” Geralt allowed. “He’s right, though,” he added, a touch defensively. “Niflgaard won’t leave her alone because she’s sad.”

“Oh, you callous son of whore! I know very well how much danger that girl is in, you can’t go _anywhere_ on the continent without hearing exactly how badly Nilfgaard wants her. And if she inherited her mother’s powers, I know very well how much she has to learn. That doesn’t mean you tell her not to cry, not to _grieve_ for her slaughtered family! Have you even _once_ given her a chance to cry? Don’t even answer that, I can tell already that you haven’t,” he spat. “If you had, a simple expression of condolence wouldn’t have triggered _that_. But you’re responsible for her now, Geralt. She has no one else. The _only_ thing that telling her to bottle everything up will accomplish is leaving her twisted and broken inside. Is that what you want for her?”

“You’re right, I _am_ responsible for her! I have to keep her safe, I have to make sure she’s trained to the very best of my abilities, and she can’t do that if she’s crying all the time! The world, destiny, won’t stop for her tears!”

“Then you’d have her be as emotionally crippled as _you_? Really? If you _care_ for her – her! Cirilla! Not her destiny! – then you need to care for all of her.” The look he gave him bordered on pity and he knew it. “Being hard doesn’t make you strong, Geralt. It just makes you miserable.”

Something ugly crossed Geralt’s face and his fine features twisted up into a sneer. “My my, how our song has changed, bard. What happened to all those noble sounding songs, hmm? I thought you didn’t believe witchers had no emotions?”

“I never said you didn’t have emotions, you repressed tit! I said you’re emotionally crippled,” Jaskier corrected. “I know very well that you can feel, can care. But you’re complete shite at it, and you’ve left yourself closed off and miserable. Maybe that helped you survive,” he allowed. “But there’s more to life than just survival. If you ever want her to be able to _live_ , to laugh and love and be happy, you won’t make her feel like she has to shove down every bit of emotion, every bit of light and laughter. Because that’s what you’re doing. You’re telling her that her grief is wrong, and grief is a twin to love. You can’t feel one without the other.”

“That’s enough,” Vesemir interrupted. He finally put away his sword and bodily interposed himself between the pair. “We have a more immediate decision to make. That is, what we will do with _you_.” His gaze was hard and unyielding on Jaskier, and Jaskier didn’t take the lack of sword in hand to mean there was no threat here.

“Oh, that’s an easy one. I’ll leave, happily! I don’t care what that crazy woman said, I’m not fool enough to think I have some kind of grand destiny. I’m a bard, I sing about the destinies of others, I don’t have one myself.”

“It’s not that simple, now, is it? You know far more than I’m comfortable with. I don’t think it’s safe to allow you to leave.”

“Meletile’s tits, you must be senile if you think for one moment that I would betray that girl. She’s a child!”

“Do you think Nilfgaard will ask politely?”

“Of course not, but I would die before I gave up a single hint about her. Why would they even target me to begin with?”

Vesemir stabbed a finger towards Geralt. “Because you spent over a decade yapping at his heels and your name is linked with his. They won’t hesitate to go after you to wring whatever information about him that they can get. They won’t be gentle, and they won’t hesitate to have their mages go digging around in your mind if somehow torture doesn’t get them what they want first.”

Jaskier shrugged. “So I’ll go where Niflgaard _isn’t_. Besides, they have yet to link his name to hers. Not in any way that’s made it into the gossip. And you certainly don’t seem to worry about _him_ going out and about, and they’ll look for him first if that link gets made. Calanthe suppressed every hint about the whole Child Surprise bit that she could, and I’ll wager Nilfgaard slaughtered most of those that knew.”

“It is still too great a risk.”

“Then what, do you mean to imprison me? Kill me? Go ahead. I think we all know I can’t stop you. But those are most definitely your only two options, and if you choose imprisonment, I can _promise_ you, I will make you regret it in ways you’ve never dreamed,” he swore.

“Are you really trying to bluff me, little bard? Think I won’t kill you if I think it’s necessary?”

“Geralt wouldn’t. As infuriating as he is, he is still the best man that I know. But you? Oh, believe me, I have come to understand _exactly_ how the myth of the unfeeling witcher came about.”

“That’s enough,” Geralt said firmly. “No one is killing anyone. Jaskier, go up the stairs and take any room on the first floor on the right side of the hallway. It is too late in the evening to even try to leave, if that is what you choose.”

“Geralt, don’t be foolish. Letting him go puts Ciri in danger,” Vesemir argued.

Geralt gave him a hard look. “I said, that’s enough. Go, Jaskier.”

“Oh, yes sir, o mighty witcher sir!” he sniped back. Geralt gave him a frustrated look. “I’m not your fucking lackey, and you made very sure I knew I’m not your friend. You can shove your orders right up that constipated arse of yours and bounce on them!” He hefted his pack and his lute and stalked out, muttering the whole way about emotionally stunted, overgrown oxen.


	4. Chapter 4

It was nice to be able to mutter again. Even better to have hands and his lute. He picked the first door on the right that he came to and shut and locked the door. The room was cold, though there was a hefty stock of firewood next to the hearth. Breath misting in the air, Jaskier laid a fire and quickly sparked the tinder to life. The wood was very dry and caught quickly, and soon enough a fire blazed, battering back at the cold. Jaskier wasn’t inclined to wait for the whole room to warm and simply pulled the musty bedding down to make a pallet on the floor in front of the hearth. With a blanket wrapped round his shoulders, he carefully unpacked his lute. “Hello, darling,” he crooned. He gently ran light, sensitive fingers over the body and neck, frowning when he realized how dry she felt. He took out his rag and oil and slowly worked it into the thirst wood. Something settled in his chest as he worked until his mind quieted for the first time in far too long. He could focus on the work and let his thoughts swim into place beneath the surface of his mind.

When she was finally gleaming again, he tuned her up and let his fingers dance over the strings. He didn’t sing, he wasn’t in the mood for that. But the music was soothing, his fingers teasing out old, quiet favorite melodies.

He couldn’t stay here. It would hurt to walk away from Geralt again, no matter how angry he was with the man. He’d hoped that his return to human form would happen away from the man so that he could slink off without ever having to confront him. He should have known better, really. And he couldn’t regret giving the stubborn brute a piece of his mind about little Ciri – the girl was wounded in a way no salve could help. She needed to be able to let it out sometimes, and Geralt needed to recognize that and help her. Geralt wasn’t stupid. He’d think about what Jaskier had told him and Jaskier was confident that he’d work to be better for her.

But Jaskier couldn’t stay. Geralt certainly wouldn’t want him underfoot, Vesemir definitely didn’t. He doubted Yennefer cared one way or another. The only one that might would be Ciri, if only because he came with music and stories that could take her mind off her woes for a bit. But his presence would only bring tension and irritation to the others, and he most definitely couldn’t be happy here with things as they were. If he were still under the delusion of friendship he could have made it work, but….

On the other hand, the old bastard wasn’t wrong. Eventually someone, somewhere, would remember a rumor about a witcher and the Law of Surprise. Jaskier had linked himself to Geralt too strongly in peoples’ minds. He’d suffered for it himself already. His refusal to play any of his songs about the witcher had closed purses all over the continent. He was too famous for that connection.

Well. There were ways around that connection. It hadn’t been worth it before. But with all things under consideration, maybe it was time to reinvent himself. He had done it before. It would be a pain to start his career over completely. He _liked_ who he was. He _liked_ that people knew his name. But he needed to be separated from Geralt completely. Jaskier didn’t know how well he could hold up under torture, but he was _sure_ he would have no defense against a mental invasion by Nilfgaard’s mages.

As he played, a tentative plan formed in the back of his mind. It didn’t make him happy, but it was the only thing he could think of to keep Ciri safe while also not being emotionally eviscerated every time he laid eyes on the witcher that couldn’t stand the sight of him. Granted, it depended on another person agreeing to help him, but he could figure something else out in the event they refused.

A quiet knock pulled him from his reverie. When he hesitantly opened it, he was a bit surprised to see Ciri standing there looking anxious. “I’m sorry to disturb you. May I come in?”

“Of course, sweetness.” He shut the door behind her but didn’t lock it. He wouldn’t put it past the witcher to accuse of him of some impropriety.

“I wanted to apologize for falling apart on you earlier,” she said with painfully correct manners, hands folded in front of herself. “We hadn’t even met yet.”

“I’ve already told you, don’t apologize. It was completely understandable.”

“You’re too kind.” She bit her lip, and Jaskier could see her fingers twisting against each other.

“Ask,” he prompted gently.

“Did – did you really know my parents? My grandmother?”

“Ah.” Jaskier guided her over near the fire and urged her to sit. “I think saying that I ‘knew’ them is a little strong. I met them. What do you know of your parents’ wedding?”

“I know my father was cursed and his curse broke the night they married. I know Geralt was there, and he mentioned you were there as well.”

“Well, there’s a bit more to it than just that.” With every bit of linguistic talent that he possessed, he spun the story of Pavetta’s engagement feast into something a bit more positive but just as romantic. He downplayed Calanthe’s attempt to subvert the Law of Surprise, her trying to hire Geralt to murder Duny.

“Why was he there anyway? He’s never said, and it doesn’t seem like grandmother to invite someone random, even if he _is_ a witcher.”

“Ah, well, yes. In my younger days, I had rather a difficult time saying to no to those who invited me for a bit of dalliance.” He felt the tips of his ears heat under her wide eyed gaze. “There may have been one or two spouses that I hadn’t considered appropriately before I agreed to such dalliances in attendance that night, and I felt it would be prudent to have someone more accustomed to fighting than myself to sort of keep them at bay.” He coughed slightly. “I’ve learned to say no to the married ones.”

Ciri giggled. Having grown up at court, she was certainly no stranger to the sordid shenanigans of people. “So he protected you?”

“Well yes. By telling the one man that actually attempted something that I had been, ah, unmanned as a child.” Ciri laughed outright at that. Jaskier didn’t mind that she was laughing at his embarrassment. It was more important that she was laughing at all. “The worst part is, I had never actually met his wife. I really did just resemble someone else, but he wanted me to drop my trousers right there to prove it, which I _obviously_ could not do, so it was getting all very tense.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Once word got around, I had to stick with the story and, well, it was a bit lonely at court after that.”

“You’re awful, Jaskier.”

“True, but with a face this pretty, I get away with it.”

“You must be awfully good friends.”

Jaskier sobered. “Not so much, dearest. We’ve known each other for a long time, but I wouldn’t say we were friends.”

“But. But he talked about you. He said you were friends!”

“Then he has told you something very different from everything he’s ever said to me.” Jaskier reached out to smooth her suddenly clenched fingers. “Don’t fret, sweeting. I am quite accustomed to being too much for most people to tolerate for long. It’s a testament to him that he managed it for so very long. I seem to be a bad luck charm, and he got tired of that bad luck spilling over onto him.”

“Oh, that’s rubbish. I know he cares about you. Whatever falling out you had, can’t you make up?” She looked down, biting her lip. “You’re different. I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t really stay. I’ll just be in the way, and I would never forgive myself if I managed to bring trouble down on your head.” A single tear slid down her cheek and he reached up to wipe it away with his thumb. “Please don’t cry over me. I promise you, I’m not worth that.”

“I just. No one else here talks to me like you do. They tell me to focus on training, and I do, I know it’s important! But you answer my questions and I can tell you’re telling the truth, even if you’re telling it _nicely_. Geralt and Yennefer just tell me to wait until I’m older, and Vesemir just says to focus on my studies.”

“Oh, sweeting. If I stayed, it would be nothing but fights, and you shouldn’t have to deal with that. I already dislike Vesemir, and Geralt doesn’t really like me, and I don’t even know what to think about Yennefer except that she scares the trousers off of me. I’ll just bring misery if I stay. But I will promise you this,” he added, tilting her face up. “When you are in your rightful place as Queen of Cintra, I will come and stay as long as you like. I will play for you as often as my fingers can manage, and compose such ballads in your name as this world has never seen!”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be queen,” she said like confession. “Grandmother failed to defeat Nilfgaard. How can I hope to?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t know war. But I can see your grandmother’s indomitable will, and your mother’s capacity for love. Your father was under a curse when they met. Anyone might have been frightened of him. But Pavetta saw through that to who he really was. That is a very, _very_ rare gift, and I think you have it. With all of that, plus Geralt and Yennefer helping you, I **know** you’ll succeed.”

“Will you never forgive him?”

“It’s not about forgiving him. It still hurts, and it still makes me angry, but I think I forgave him the moment we had our falling out. I still care about him, and I think I always will. His life has never been easy, and trusting others isn’t something he’s very good at, since so many people have treated him poorly. It’s not as bad now, but back when I first met him, it wasn’t unusual for people to realize who and what he is and outright spit on him. Even when they were asking him for help. But I bring him misery, sweeting, and that is not a good feeling for either of us.”

“At least you’ll stay through the winter. Maybe things will be different by spring.”

“Why would I stay through the winter?”

“They didn’t tell you? Winters here are terrible. We’re expecting the first truly bad snowstorm any day now. The trail back down the mountain will be closed. And Yennefer had to leave, so no portals. Something is happening in Aretuza that she had to go deal with. She was only waiting for Geralt to be back.”

“I see.” He shifted and drew one of the blankets around her shoulders. “Has he ever told you the story behind ‘Toss a Coin to your Witcher’?” he asked.

“Oh that’s right! You wrote that song, didn’t you? No, he’s never said. Tell me!”

He settled in to tell her the real stories behind some of his more famous songs, and at her request played a few. His voice was a little rusty, but she didn’t seem to notice. Finally, her eyes began to droop and he brought an end to the evening. Ciri protested, wanting just one more story, one more song. He was adamant. “There will be time for songs and stories later,” he promised. He guided her to the door. Geralt was lurking just down the hallway when he opened and looked relieved when Ciri spotted him and rolled her eyes with a smile. “Off to bed with you, sweeting.”

“Good night, Jaskier. I think I like you even better like this than as a cat.”

Jaskier laughed. “As do I! Have you ever heard a cat try to sing? Hardly a toe tapping sort of sound.”

Giggling, she wandered off down the hallway with Geralt following. Jaskier closed the door and locked it again. Then he turned and began to ransack the room. He bundled the blankets and furs around his pack and lute, and threw open the wardrobe. Someone’s old clothes hung inside, someone who was or had been of a larger build than Jaskier. But the clothing had been built sturdy and with the mountain winters in mind, as they would be quite warm. He layered trousers and shirt over his own, and shook out the heavy winter cloak that hung there. Oiled leather on the outside and lined with white rabbit fur on the inside, it would keep him nicely warm. The gloves inside were too big for what he would need to do, but they would likely come in handy later and keep him from losing his fingers to frostbite.

With his bulky pack in hand, he went to the window. The night was still clear and the moon gave him enough light to work with. He looked down. If he fell, he risked a broken bone, but it was only one flight above ground level, so the risk was minimal. Taking a deep breath, he shimmied out onto the window ledge and swung around and dropped, catching himself on the ledge. He pulled the window closed behind him and felt carefully with his toes for purchase. The keep was old. The mortar, though it still held the stones together, was nonetheless worn by years upon years of extreme weather. His toes found purchase and he shimmied down to the ground.

For whatever reason, possibly because of the rather dramatic evening, neither Geralt nor Vesemir had thought to close the portcullis. Quiet as can be, he simply walked right out. As he recalled, the Gwenlech river flowed down into the Buina, and from there, if he found a boat, he could go all the way to the sea. And the river was so very close, even with his ordinary human ears returned to him he could hear it. If nothing else, his time as a cat had left him in good health and well rested. Until a significant amount of snow actually fell, he could make good time, and he didn’t think he’d need to rest until well into the next day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two quickies in a row!

  * Ciri was pouting. It was barely noticeable, but Geralt could tell. Her eyes kept flicking towards the open door, clearly watching for someone. Vesemir had gone hunting and Yennefer had portaled back to Aretuza the night before, so there was only one person it could be: Jaskier. Not even twenty-four hours and he was already causing a distraction. And not just for his charge. Geralt was just as distracted and kept listening for footsteps.

He had often pictured his reunion with the bard and last night not had not gone _anything_ like he’d planned. First and foremost, he’d never expected Jaskier to appear in the place of the scrawny stray cat he’d found. That had thrown him off. He’d been amused for a moment upon hearing his explanation, but it was clear that Jaskier had not taken his words as humor. The bard had never spoken to him with such venom before and he hadn’t known quite what to say. And then with Ciri falling apart and seeking comfort from Jaskier, whom she’d only just met, he’d been even more off balance. He hadn’t conducted himself very well after that at _all_. He had promised himself that he would find time alone with the man and offer the long overdue apology for his words back on that mountain.

Ciri finally seemed to give up and just closed her book. “Something’s wrong. Why hasn’t Jaskier come out yet? Do you think he turned back into a cat?”

Geralt blinked, the only sign of his surprise at the question. “I doubt it. Yennefer wouldn’t leave such a thing half done.”

Ciri gave him an expectant look. He stared blankly back. She sighed. “Then you should go check on him. He doesn’t want to stay, Geralt. He thinks it would make everyone unhappy if he did. You told me he is your friend, but he doesn’t think you think that. I know you had a falling out, but if you would just _talk_ to him, I know he’d want to stay! Don’t you want to fix what’s wrong between you?”

“I do. Of course I do. But….” He wasn’t sure how to finish that. How was he supposed to tell this girl that he was afraid that his words wouldn’t be enough? As difficult as Jaskier’s anger had been to deal with, he wasn’t sure he could handle the devastation that had been there on that mountain again. Or cold indifference. But hell. He had been wanting to apologize for quite some time. Jaskier shouldn’t have to come to him first for that. “You’re right. I thought to wait until he felt comfortable coming out on his own, but it shouldn’t wait any longer.” Ciri beamed at him, bright and encouraging.

Geralt left her to at least pretend to return to her studies and made his way up to the living quarters. When he knocked on the door, however, there was no answer. Geralt frowned and took a long smell. There were the faintest traces of Jaskier’s cedar and sweetgrass scent, but they were so faint they could only be from the night before. When he listened carefully, wondering if perhaps Ciri were right and perhaps something had made Jaskier return to the cat form, he started to panic. The only sound from the room was the faintest crackle of a fire gone to embers. He tried to open the door but found it locked. Jaskier wouldn’t have had the key and could only have locked it from the inside.

Without hesitation, he drew his foot back and kicked with all his strength. The door was thick and built to witcher standards, so it took a few blows before the wood finally splintered. The room was dark and chilled and empty. Jaw clenched, he went inside to look around. The heavy blankets and furs were missing, and the wardrobe stood open and clearly ransacked. Jaskier’s pack and, more importantly lute, were gone. He walked to the window and saw that it wasn’t properly latched. Jaskier had told him more than one story of having to make undignified and hurried escapes through windows, and this one wasn’t all that high up off the ground. Even Jaskier could survive a fall from this height. He opened it and looked down, scowling when he realized that it had begun to snow quite heavily. But he could still see the way the mortar was crumbling a bit. More than enough to give a nimble man purchase if he were careful.

He turned and strode out of the room. Ciri looked anxious at his swift return and he held up a hand. “He’s gone,” he said flatly. “Left last night, going by the faded scent in the room. As soon as Vesemir returns, I’ll go look for him. The snow has started.”

Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. “But he said…oh. He said there would be time for songs and stories later but…he never said exactly how later.”

“He isn’t the sort to break promises,” Geralt said, awkwardly trying to reassure her. “He plans to see you again if he promised.”

Ciri nodded a little sadly. “He thought he’d be in the way. He thought everyone would be fighting and it would upset me. He thinks he brings you nothing but misery.”

Geralt winced. This was really all on him. He should have gone to Jaskier last night. Ciri could have tucked herself in. He should have pinned Jaskier down last night and apologized properly. Now Jaskier was who knew where on the mountain, in the forest, with the first blizzard of winter filling the few trails that existed and turning the landscape into a disorienting white blur. Jaskier’s field skills had grown over the years, but even witcher senses could have trouble navigating these mountains in winter. The only bright side was that Jaskier had taken the weather into account when he’d helped himself to the blankets, furs, and winter gear from the wardrobe. He could survive, at least for a time, the deadly cold temperatures that fell at night. He might not even lose any fingers or toes.

“It gets so cold at night,” Ciri whispered, echoing his thoughts.

“He took winter gear and the furs from the bedroom. That will help.”

“What about food and water?”

“The snow can be melted for water. He’s a decent hand at setting snares. He should be fine until I find him.”

“You’re going to look?”

“As soon as Vesemir returns,” he promised, both himself and his charge.

Vesemir tried to forbid him to go. “Don’t be a fool,” the older witcher snapped. “If he left before the snow started, any tracks he left will be covered by now. The fool got himself into this. There’s no point in you throwing yourself in after him.”

“He’s my friend,” Geralt said stubbornly, tying on his cloak.

“And you’re willing to die, senselessly, when you have almost no hope of finding him? Will you leave the girl all alone?”

“Damn it, Vesemir!” he snarled. “He’s my friend. It’s my faut he left in the first place. I have survived these snows before and I will again. He knows enough to survive for a time, but if he gets lost, his time is limited. I’m not abandoning him! I’ll be back. Ciri will be fine with you for a few days until I return.”

“And how long will you devote to this fool’s errand? A day? A week?”

“As long as it takes!”

“No. Look for him if you must. But if you haven’t found him in three days, come back. If it takes you longer than that, you’ll just be looking for a corpse anyway.” Vesemir glared the glare that had kept countless young witchers in line.

Reluctantly, Geralt conceded the point. “Fine. Three days.” He turned to give a wide, watery-eyed Ciri a brief kiss on the forehead. “I’ll be back,” he assured her. Then he strode out.

He did return, but not happily, and very much alone. Ciri’s face fell the moment she laid eyes on him. “I was able to pick up his trail. He’s following the river,” he reported, determined to give what good news he can.

Vesemir grunted. “That’s a difficult path.”

Geralt scowled at him at the faint hope in the girl’s eyes died at his words. “Jaskier is an experienced traveler. He’s navigated worse terrain.”

“With help.”

“And without,” Geralt corrected sharply. “He’s also fast. If he was able to maintain his pace, then he made it several miles down the mountain before the snow hit.”

“So. So he could make down,” Ciri asked hopefully.

“He could. I believe he will,” he added, glaring at Vesemir’s doubting face.

“If he does, that just leaves us the problem of him being out there, knowing what he knows. Glare all you like,” Vesemir added sharply. “But you know it’s true. Once the connection between you Ciri is made, he becomes a target for Nilfgaard. And then we will _all_ wish he’d died peacefully in the snow!”

Everything within Geralt roared a denial even as Ciri’s lip wobbled. Jaskier **would not** be a target because of him. He couldn’t allow it.

“Yennefer can find him,” Ciri said suddenly. “When she gets back, she can cast a – a tracking spell or something. Did he leave anything behind? I remember Mousesack saying you need an item that belonged to a person for that. He always did something to all of my things so they couldn’t be used for such a spell, but Jaskier wouldn’t have had something like that done to his things…would he?”

“No, I can’t imagine that he would have. But he didn’t leave anything behind.” Geralt’s eyes narrowed in thought for a moment, then he turned and run up to his quarters. When he returned, he was carrying the plump, woolen cushion that he had bought for Jaskier when he was a cat. “We don’t need his belongings. We have his hair.” He placed the cushion on the table and plucked several long, silky brown hairs from it. “He shed like crazy as a cat. His hair returned to normal when he did.” He wrapped the hairs in a sheet of parchment for safe keeping.

“Fine,” Vesemir said grudgingly. “When your sorcerous gets back, we’ll have her track down the bard and bring him back. The cells below are still intact –“

“We are not imprisoning my friend. I will go to him.”

“And if he refuses to return and stay put?”

“Then I’ll tell him what kind of precautions he must take. I won’t yield on this, Vesemir,” he warned. “It’s wrong. We are not monsters or tyrants to force others to our will.”

“Even if it endangers Ciri?”

“Yes,” Ciri said firmly, steel as strong as her grandmother’s entering her tone.

Vesemir threw up his hands. “Do as you like!”





	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So confession time: this story is actually finished. I'm editing and tweaking sections, although I still have no beta (any volunteers? I ALWAYS seem to miss typos, no matter how hard I try to catch them! feel free to point out any you spot) and a sequel is brewing in the back of my brain. So is another truly angsty fic unrelated to this one. I want to get at least a couple more sections up today yet, before I have to go back to work. 
> 
> Keep the comments coming, folks, I'm notoriously bad at replying because i feel a little dumb just squealing thanks over each one, but I do read them and THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH, I'm glad folks are enjoying this. We gotta do something to keep our spirits up, especially with the delay to season 2 (stupid corona!)

Jaskier eyed the field of flowers warily. They still bloomed, even in winter. Had he stumbled upon the place this late in the year the first time, he would have known to not step foot in it. There was still no boundary marker between forest and flowers, but the lack of snow and the blooms in the dead of winter gave it away. He raised his voice to make sure it carried, “Mistress Dahlia! I would like to speak with you, please.”

The air shimmered in the middle of the field and the witch that had cursed him and caused his current predicament appeared, walking casually across the field towards him. “I see you managed to get your shape back,” she observed, head tilted to the side.

“Yes. And now my life and the life of people I care about are in danger, thanks to your curse. I would like your help to fix that.”

She stared at him, nonplussed. “Are you serious right now?”

“Very much so. You chose to send me to Geralt. Whatever destiny you think I have, I can’t imagine that increasing the danger he lives in is part of it. If you believe in his destiny, I need your help to make sure he can accomplish it.” It was a gamble. One _hell_ of a gamble. She could kill him or send him right back to where Geralt was, although he didn’t know how she’d known his location the first time.

“Interesting argument. If I refuse?”

He shrugged. “Then I leave. There are places I can go over the mountains. I’ll either die attempting to cross or I’ll make it and be out of reach.”

“What would you ask of me, should I agree to help?”

“You changed me once before. I need to not be me anymore. I need a new face.”

“Well.” For several long moments they just stared at each other, Jaskier desperately hopeful, Dahlia inscrutable. “I’m just bored enough that I think I’ll do as you ask. It should be interesting to see how this plays out. Come, I invite you in. This will take a little more work than the curse I placed on you before.” She held out a hand invitingly.

Suddenly very, _very_ nervous, Jaskier gulped and took her hand.

There was a quaint cottage hidden in the middle of the field. As expected, it was much larger on the inside than the outside, and Jaskier couldn’t stop himself from craning his head to try to take in as much as he could. It was filled with growing things, plants and flowers and even a few trees, all of types he had never before seen. He wasn’t sure that most of them were natural. He sat on the stool where she’d indicated and kept his arms and legs in. He didn’t dare damage anything.

Dahlia put a kettle over the hearth fire and hummed an old love song as she prepared two cups of tea. She set one down in front of him when it was ready and sipped hers, eyeing him until he grudgingly sipped at his own. It tasted like tea.

“What you want can be a bit challenging. Your witcher could smell the magic on you as a cat, could he not?”

“That’s what he said. He took me with him because he thought I used to be a mage’s pet or something. A sorcerous that he knows spotted that it was a spell.”

“I thought as much. It was only going to need a bit of a tug to undo that curse, but what you ask is a bit more. You want a change that isn’t easily broken. It can’t be a curse, or any witcher or magic user will know it’s there. But you have an advantage that most others do not.”

Jaskier cocked his head. “My…willingness?” he guessed.

“No. Your bloodline. Has your witcher never asked about your elven parentage?”

“Well no, because I’m not an elf. I’m human.”

“You are not. Not wholly. Your form changed far too quickly, too easily, to be wholly human. Where are you from, originally? Somewhere near Kerack, yes?”

Jaskier swallowed, feeling a little light headed. “Yes.”

“In my younger days, I met many elves. The few that mix with humans these days do not speak of it, but there are different clans, bloodlines, amongst their race. Some bloodlines have certain…gifts, shall we say. Abilities unique to their clan. The clan from that region are known to be shapeshifters, able to alter their face and form at will. They are _very_ insular. I’m amazed that one left their home long enough to impregnate a human. You lack deformities, which can show up after a few generations, so I believe you to be half elf.” Dahlia shrugged daintily. “Perhaps your mother had a bit of a dalliance she never mentioned to your father. You appear human enough, physically, but your form is as moldable as clay. It would also account for your not _aging_. Have you not noticed the lack of wrinkles or gray hair? You have been traveling with your witcher for over two decades. Even beginning those travels as a very young man, you should be showing some signs of approaching middle age by now.”

Jaskier gaped at her. He had never really paid that much attention. His face was just his face! Yennefer’s comment about crow’s feet had been a nasty joke, which he’d confirmed at the earliest chance, but beyond that, he hadn’t thought a thing about it. His face just was as it was, and on the rare occasions that he’d considered the passage of time, he’d vaguely assumed that he would end up looking distinguished rather than _old_ , like his father. Or his mother, who still hadn’t looked her age when he’d last grudgingly visited home about five years ago. Come to think on it, his mother could almost pass for his sister….

“When you have the inkling, it might be worth your while to return home. The last anyone knew, there were remnants of that clan still living within Brokilon forest, heavy magics concealing their enclave from everyone. But they might let you in, as one of their kin.” She finished her tea and set the cup aside. “Now then, on to your request. Had you an idea of what you wished to look like?”

“So long as I am not so disfigured as to draw attention, and so long as I am able to keep my singing voice, I don’t care.”

“You wish to remain a bard, yet draw no attention?”

He grimaced. “I have no other means of making my way. I don’t plan to try to make my new name famous. Just keep myself fed and clothed until the danger passes.”

“I see. I think I have a solution. No one will mistake you for Jaskier, the White Wolf’s bard,” she promised with a wicked gleam in her eyes. She took his cup from him and set it aside. “This will probably hurt, but not nearly as badly as turning into a cat did. The magic doesn’t have to account for so much mass.” She almost delicately placed two fingers on his forehead and began to whisper.

The pain wasn’t, as promised, nearly as bad as his prior transformations had been. His body felt…different. Lighter in some ways heavier in others. He looked at his hands first and found them smaller, finer, but the fingers still long enough to handle playing. The tilt of his head had hair falling in front of his face and he frowned. It was still the same color. Being shorter wouldn’t make that…much…difference.

He looked at Dahlia. “I have breasts,” he pointed out then stopped, one hand going to his throat. That voice had been distinctly feminine. He straightened and set his diaphragm and began to run through vocal scales, testing his range and pitch. He was more than pleased with both. He could easily support himself with this voice. In fact, it opened a whole new style of music to him that he’d long considered his voice not suited well enough to in order bother with. He broke off when he noticed the amused look on the witch’s face. “Sorry, just wasn’t expecting…this,” he said ruefully. After a thought, he shifted his hips and felt a brief, mild flare of panic when he couldn’t detect the shift of his genitals. Which made sense, of course. “Have you a mirror, madam?”

“Help yourself.” She waved a hand and a full length mirror shimmered into being against the wall.

Jaskier went over to study his – her reflection. She was tall for a woman but shorter than he had been. Her hair was the same brown and tumbled in loose waves to her shoulder blades. She had pert breasts and a trim waist, and her eyes were still the same blue. But she was so clearly a she that no one could mistake her for the bard Jaskier. A sister perhaps, or perhaps just someone from the same region of the world. If she changed her style of music, kept herself to smaller venues rather than obviously courting fame as he had done before, she would be fine. She turned and smiled brightly at Dahlia. “Thank you,” she said warmly, sincerely. “We’ll be safe now. No one will connect me to Geralt and I can make a living like this.”

“You’re welcome. It might perhaps be in your best interest to return to the place of your birth and seek out the elves there,” she added. “This transformation was even easier. It’s possible that your elven nature is waking, and the two transformations sped up the process. If might be possible for you to learn to do it for yourself, and it’s best to have instruction in that sort of thing so you don’t make a mistake and forget to change an internal organ or something.”

Jaskier grimaced. “That’s a gruesome thought. But perhaps. When things have calmed down. For now, it’s best if I find somewhere to lay low and keep out of trouble.”

Dahlia laughed, sounding genuinely, but not cruelly, amused. “Somehow I doubt that you’ll fare very well with that, but I wish you luck.”

“Thank you,” she said dryly. “I appreciate that.” She walked back over to the stool, tripping on the hem of her now too long trousers. “I’ll need to go shopping. I’ll have to find just the right clothes to showcase this,” she mused. For the moment, she bent over to roll her trouser legs up.

“Easy enough.” Dahlia waved a hand again and a truly stunning dress appeared draped over the table. “I have no need for such gowns any longer.”

“Ah.” Jaskier was tempted, of course. But. “I thank you for that, but that won’t work. Too revealing, and far too upscale. I’m hoping to play small towns, perhaps at the homes of minor nobles. That will send the wrong message. It isn’t easy for female bards. Pretty but demure is the way to go. Nothing to intimidate the lady of the house and nothing to give the men the impression that more than songs are for sale.”

“I see. Well, you know your craft better than I, bard. Mind the flowers as you leave.”

“I’ll be careful,” she promised.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long one here! And a quick vote request: post their funtimes in the story or as optional side story?

Geralt eyed the town as he rode through the gates. Breyla was a small town almost halfway between Trelogor and Drakenborg. It prospered mainly from the proximity to the capitol, with nobles and other travelers stopping to spend rest at the inns and restock supplies as people traveled between larger cities. It boasted no noble’s estate, but would doubtless have a very self-important alderman running the show. But it was the only town within range of the tracking charm Yennefer had managed to craft for him when she’d finally returned, and the charm had finally begun to glow rather than simply pull in a general direction.

_“I cannot get a lock on your little bard,” Yennefer explained, much to Ciri’s visible distress. “Something has happened to muddy the waters. At a guess, I would say someone has altered his appearance, and we are too far from him for my magic to get a better lock on him. What I can do, however, is create a charm that will lead you to him, and portal you out of the mountains to begin the search. The charm will tug in his direction. When you are within a few miles, it will begin to glow. The brighter the glow, the closer you are. Touch the charm to him, whatever his form has been altered to, and the glow will turn gold.”_

_“It will be enough,” Geralt allowed. He turned and raised an eyebrow at Ciri. He hadn’t planned to leave for long._

_“You have to go find him and bring him back. He’s important, Geralt. I just know it.”_

It was very nearly spring. The weather had already begun to warm and snow to melt. In another couple weeks, the snow everywhere except the far north and high in the mountains would be gone. He had missed out on an entire season to make things right. He would **not** miss another.

Roach ambled along the city streets towards the center of town. The town square boasted a number of inns encircling it, and each in showed light and movement inside. People were on the move already after the long winter. Geralt rode by each inn, studying the charm hanging from his wrist. Four of Jaskier’s hairs were suspended inside a strange liquid. The glow brightened when he reached the White Hare. He could hear a haunting melody played from within. This was not the inn for a rowdy crowd. This was a quiet place, for more affluent travelers who wanted a decent meal and clean beds. Neighboring inns, with their ground floor taverns, were louder. The types of places Jaskier usually played at, as the drunker people got, the more they gave to keep the rousing and often bawdy songs playing. Inn keepers could be relied upon to spot a meal and a drink in return for keeping the crowd lively and drinking.

But the bard in this place was a woman. Her voice was soothing, even haunting, and would please ladies of quality. There would be no coarse songs played here. But if Jaskier were keeping his head down, he might not play his usual venues. The lute was certainly skilled enough to be his bard. Even when they’d met, Jaskier’s playing was above average, and he’d only improved over the years. Geralt had heard playing of all skill levels in his life. Whatever teasing insults he’d given the bard over the years, the truth was that Jaskier was one of the best he’d ever heard. The style wasn’t Jaskier’s usual, but the skill most definitely was.

Geralt reluctantly allowed a stable hand to escort Roach around the side to be put up for the night. He hoped he wouldn’t need her sooner than the morning, but that would depend on how well Jaskier received his apology. Anticipation and dread coiled in his belly as he walked inside.

There was a medium sized crowd within. A stout woman manned the bar, serving ale and wine, while a pair of serving girls moved about the room bringing plates of food and removing dirty ones. A lone female bard sat near the fire curled almost lovingly around her lute as she played. But Jaskier wasn’t in the room. Perhaps in one of the rooms upstairs, taking a rest from traveling?

Geralt scanned the room again even as he took a seat in a corner that allowed him to see the whole room, plus the stairs to the upper floors as well as the entrance. He absently ordered a bowl of stew and an ale. He could _smell_ Jaskier’s scent, cedar and sweetgrass, although there was another note added to it that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps a new scented soap? The bard usually only used those when he was playing for nobility or royalty but if someone of higher rank had passed through the inn of late….

His eyes were drawn back to the female bard. If Jaskier sang with her, there wasn’t a court on the continent that wouldn’t vie to have them play. Her song came to a close and she reached for a half-full glass of wine on the floor beside her to wet her throat. Her eyes flicked around the interior, assessing, and his breath caught. With her face lifted like that, he would swear on all he knew that this was Jaskier’s sister. The same rich, silky brown hair, eyes the same vibrant blue. Those eyes fell on him and for a moment he would swear they recognized him and flashed with apprehension before they shaded with well feigned curiosity.

Her look was noticed by one of the patrons, a large man with a neatly trimmed, jet black beard and the large frame and scorched smell of a blacksmith. The man’s brown eyes narrowed on Geralt and the chin went up in challenge.

“Ho there,”the man said loudly, startling the rest of the patrons. “With that hair and those eyes, you can only be the famous White Wolf! What brings you to our fair town? Surely no ghouls lurk around _here_.”

Geralt inclined his head slightly. “Merely passing through,” he said mildly. He gestured at his plate. “A meal and a bed for the night are my only quarry.”

“We are honored our town can play host to you. Come, Lady Arell, you must know some songs about the famous White Wolf! Toss a Coin, perhaps?”

Arell eyed the blacksmith for a moment then nodded. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.” Her fingers began to dance on the strings as she raised her voice. It was a slightly softer version than what Jaskier would sing it, less challenge in the more intense sections, more pleading in the commands to toss a coin to your witcher. Her eyes met his again as the song came to a close and again there was a brief flash of something there.

The blacksmith stood when she finished and clapped before walking right up to her to place a possessive hand on her shoulder. “A finer bard you’ll not find anywhere, eh, witcher?” he prompted. Arell glanced at the man invading her space and the hand on her shoulder, and that glance spoke volumes of how _un_ welcome the man was.

Geralt rose and crossed the room confidently. “I could not agree more,” he said. Up close, the blacksmith was easily a match for his own height. But also up close, Jaskier’s scent was much stronger. In a move he’d observed in the houses of the highborn and at royal courts, he bowed slightly and lifted one of Arell’s hands to his lips to brush a kiss over her knuckles. The charm around his wrist stood out straight from his body, reaching for the young woman. It touched her skin for just a moment and flared gold. “That was easily the equal of the song’s composer. I’ve not heard it performed better,” he said sincerely, meeting her eyes.

Arell licked her lips, fingers flexing in his hold. “Thank you, sir witcher. That is high praise indeed.”

“No more than you deserve. In thanks, perhaps you’d allow me to buy you dinner?”

“Alas, she has already eaten,” the blacksmith interjected, shifting his body to break Geralt’s hold on her hand. “But do allow me to pay for your meal, witcher, and a drink.”

Arell looked relieved for a moment before her face composed itself again. For the moment Geralt allowed himself to be diverted, as the blacksmith paid for his meal and then returned to his own seat. Arell started to play again, old ballads that had been in fashion when Geralt had first begun to move in the world on the Path. Stories of tragic, one sided love or heroes dying noble deaths. Most of the crowd seemed to appreciate the relaxing music, although judging by the look on the blacksmith, he found fault with the songs’ topics. Geralt couldn’t blame him. There was nothing in the music to encourage a romantic interest. It was clear the man was trying to stake a claim and just as clear Arell wasn’t interested.

Geralt lingered for a time over his food and drink. When the blacksmith began to show signs of impatience and shoot him harsh, suspicious looks, he rose and arranged for a room. He took his key and made his way up the stairs, tuning his hearing in to the common room below. He passed the first room at the top of the stairs and could smell Jaskier’s scent very strongly from behind the door, though of course there was no one inside. Because Jaskier was now Arell and she was down the stairs and just beginning to wind her performance to a close. The room she was in was likely part of her contract. Being right at the top of the stairs, every single person coming and going would pass it, making it the least desirable room in the inn.

Geralt’s was right next door, however. Even with his door closed, he could hear downstairs clearly and simply waited. Jaskier thanked her crowd, and the jingling of coins indicated that she had collected tips from the patrons, though not a terribly large amount. But if she was contracted to play, she wouldn’t need much, not with room and probably at least one meal included. Her footsteps crossed the room below, headed for the stairs. Less pleasing, heavier footsteps followed her, and the pair wound up right outside her door, a few meager feet from where Geralt hovered by his own door, hand on his sword.

“You played very well tonight, as always, my dear,” the blacksmith said.

“Thank you, Rolf. You’re too kind,” Arell murmured.

“Would you favor me with one more song? Just for me?” Rolf requested. His heartbeat had quickened, as had his breath.

“I am really quite tired, Rolf,” Arell protested, though her tone was mild, placating.

Rolf nevertheless huffed out a frustrated breath. “You are always quite tired,” he said, beginning to sound angry. “But you weren’t too tired to play an extra half an hour tonight. Until _he_ left. I saw how you looked at him, Arell. He isn’t even _human_.” There was a light thump, a body hitting wood. “Haven’t I been good to you? Haven’t I been here every night since you came, encouraged others in town to come listen to you?” There was another thump. “How long will you keep denying me what you owe me?” Another sound, wet, and Arell’s protesting whine were enough.

Geralt yanked open his door and leveled his sword at the blacksmith. He was gripping her tightly by the arms and pressing her up against the door to her room as he forced a kiss on her, one arm held out to keep the lute out of harm’s way. “I don’t believe the lady is interested,” he growled. “Release her!”

Rolf stepped back, glaring, cheeks flushed with both anger and arousal. Arell’s fear was a sour note mixed in with Rolf’s bitter stink. “Witcher, this is none of your concern,” he snarled. “You’re just passing through. If you want it stay peaceful, return to your room and stay out of our business.”

“Your attentions are unwelcome,” Geralt spat back. “A man who forces his attentions on someone is no man, he is a monster. And everyone knows what witchers do to monsters.” His eyes narrowed and he let the tip of his sword drop to point at the man’s groin in a clear threat.

“I’m not forcing her, witcher. I have been courting her for weeks. Mind your own business!”

Geralt shifted, stepping forward to drive his forearm into the man’s face. Rolf wasn’t anywhere close to expecting the move and went down like a sack of grain. Geralt sheathed his sword and dragged the man into the room he’d rented. When he shut the door and turned to Arell, she was staring at him with a peculiar kind of fear in her eyes. “Jaskier, how the hell does this stuff happen to you?”

Jaskier closed her eyes and slumped back against the door. “The thing on your wrist,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Yennefer.”

“Yes. Your hair was left on the wool cushion I bought for you, fluff.”

Jaskier huffed out a half laugh and shook her head. “Gods damn it, Geralt. _Why_?”

“Because you left. You left before we could properly talk. And before I could properly beg your forgiveness for what I said on that cursed mountain,” he said simply. He wanted no more room for misunderstandings. And no more chances to be interrupted before those all too important words could be said.

Her face creased in confusion and hurt. “I…oh Melitele’s tits, you better come in. The hallway is no place for this conversation,” she muttered. She unlocked the door and ushered him in, locking it behind them. She placed the lute in its case then sat on the edge of the bed, gesturing him to take the lone chair.

He pulled it up close so he could face her directly. “Jaskier, I’m sorry. I lashed out on that mountain and blamed you for things that were in no way your fault.” Tentatively, he reached out to touch one of her clenched hands. “I was looking for you, before the war broke out in Cintra,” he confessed. “But then – I heard the news. I knew war was coming, and I had to go. Calanthe wouldn’t let me even meet Ciri, she had me locked away. When I finally got out, the Nilfgaardians were sacking the city and Ciri was on the run. When I finally found her, she’d been through so much, and they’re hunting her. I had to get her to safety,” he explained. “We found Yennefer as we were running. She was in a bad way after the battle at Sodden. I got them both to Kaer Morhen. When spring came, we decided I should return to the road, be seen, and seen alone, so that if rumors of our connection made it to Nilfgaard they would think I had abandoned her. I was searching for you just as much as I was making sure I was seen, but there was never any word of you. Nothing that wasn’t far older.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so much at one time before,” Jaskier said weakly. He just gazed back at her, trying to put all of his regret, his guilt, into the look. She looked away again. “I don’t see why you bothered. To apologize, really? Geralt, you’ve never apologized for anything before. Why did it matter so much now? To bring me back for Ciri? You must know what a disaster that would be. I drove you nuts when we were on the road together, with plenty of hunts and distractions. Penned up together it would be a hundred times worse. And as you can see, I took precautions to keep me from being linked to you at all, so that old bastard’s dire predictions are null.”

“I bothered because – because you were my friend. My first real friend, Jaskier. And even if you can’t forgive me, you deserve the apology, and you’re worth the effort. I _miss_ you.”

“Oh gods, don’t!” She scrubbed her hand over her face. “I’m still not used to all the new hormones, you’ll make me cry like some silly little girl.”

Geralt caught her hands and held them, squeezed them until her watery gaze met his. “I swear to you, Jaskier, I mean every word. I miss you. I want you back in my life. It’s selfish,” he admitted, guilty. “I’m in more danger now than ever, as long as Niflgaard is hunting her. And you’re right, as you are now, no one would connect you to me. Somehow, you don’t even smell like magic the way you did as a cat. No one would think you under a spell. You’d be as safe as anyone else. But Kaer Morhen is safe too. Please come back.”

Jaskier took a deep breath. “You’re right. You shouldn’t have said those things to me. They hurt, Geralt. And it wasn’t the first time your words have cut me. I know you think I’m silly. That I talk too much, and my songs are annoying. I could handle the insults before, but I’m not sure I can anymore. You may not care for them, but I put so much of _me_ into my songs, and every time you dismiss them, every time you say they’re like – like a pie with no filling – “

Geralt slid out of the chair to his knees, stopping her words. “I’m sorry! I like your songs, Jaskier. Some more than others, but. I couldn’t – I couldn’t let myself like them openly. At first, because I was waiting for the price. No one does favors for witchers without wanting something in return. By the time I started to realize that you weren’t like that, it was just – a bad habit, to poke at them. And you. You treated me like a person instead of a weapon and somehow that hurt.”

“Oh,” she whispered. She slid off the bed to land on her knees in front of him. “Geralt. You are just. How are you breaking my heart all over again?”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I don’t – I wanted to fix what I broke, not make it worse. Should I go?”

“No, you idiot. Just – here.” He felt her hands on his face and then her breath, and then her lips brushing over his. His eyes flew open. Her face was so close, her eyes wide and still a little watery, and he could hear her heart thundering in her chest. But there was no smell of fear from her, just that cedar/sweetgrass scent. “A kiss to make it better,” she whispered against his mouth. Hesitantly, he placed his hands on her hips and pressed his lips against hers. Encouraged, she parted her lips in a clear invitation. He struggled with himself for a moment, not wanting to take more than was offered, not wanting her to think he expected anything of her, but her tongue swept insistently, boldly, into his mouth and his will broke, and he did his best to pour every single thing he felt but was so bad at actually saying into the kiss.

Jaskier was no blushing maiden, no matter her current appearance, and gave as good as she got. Her hands tangled in in his hair and somehow he found himself on his back with a warm, writhing bundle of bard on top of him. He wrapped his arms around her gratefully. It wasn’t like he’d imagined, soft curves where he’d pictured lean angles, and the hips that settled over his own had a welcoming cradle rather than a rigid cock to rut against his own. But she was noisy, little huffs and whines, and she was demanding, angling his head where she wanted it. And her scent surrounded him, saturating the air until he thought he could almost drown in it.

Then her hands bumped into the swords still strapped uncomfortably to his back and a moment later she sat up, placing a hand on his chest to hold him back when he would have followed. “Oh damn, wait, wait a moment. Shit.” Her pupils were wide, turning the blue into just a thin ring, and her cheeks were flushed and lips swollen and wet from their kisses.

“Sorry. Sorry, Jaskier, I didn’t mean to –“

“Don’t finish that sentence, witcher, we are very much going to continue this,” Jaskier warned. Her hips rotated against him, and even through their clothes he could feel how hot she was at her core. He could _smell_ her arousal, warm honey mixing with sweetgrass and he wanted to bury his face there until her voice was cracked and broken from crying out her pleasure. “The swords are in the way and reminded me of a very unfortunate situation that should be dealt with tonight first, if we don’t want interruptions.”

Geralt blinked at her, genuinely baffled.

Jaskier grinned. “Really? You can’t think what complications there might be before the night is over?” She preened. “I never thought I could distract you that much.”

“Jaskier, this is every fantasy I didn’t think I could allow myself to have come to life,” he said bluntly. “If you want this. I would have counted myself lucky to have you as a friend again, I would never have dared asked for more. Distracted is _not_ the word I would use.”

Her eyes softened and she leaned back down for a gentle kiss. “We’ve been idiots for a long time, witcher-mine. I filled my bed with others who would never ask me to stay because I was afraid if I asked for this it would be too much and you would leave me behind for good. But Rolf needs dealing with before he wakes up bellowing like a bull getting castrated. He’s the alderman’s younger son,” she said matter of factly. “I’m to play his elder brother’s wedding tomorrow, and I want that coin purse before we leave this boring little place.”

Geralt blinked. “Why? You never cared _that_ much about getting coin before, as long as we had enough for supplies.”

“Because the bastard has been hounding me since I set foot in this town and I am bloody well owed something for putting him off without actually gutting him,” she said bluntly. “He’s one of those men that thinks being polite to a woman earns him passage under her skirts and I am heartily sick of it.” She lifted the hem of her plain blue skirt to reveal a serviceable dagger strapped to her calf. “He wasn’t far from needing the healer when you knocked him out.” Geralt’s cock throbbed at the sight and words. “Come on, give us a hand.” She rolled to her feet and moved to stand in front of the small mirror set against the wall above the wash basin. She mussed her hair, then gripped the shoulder of her dress and gave a forceful yank. Geralt heard a few threads snap, but the dress was well made enough that it didn’t give. But he could see what she was about and rose to give her a hand. In moments, she was quite disheveled, and except for the cheerful look on her face, was the picture of a woman who had been attacked.

Which she actually was. The rip exposed the upper part of one arm, and he could see that bruises from the blacksmith’s grip were forming. Frowning, he covered them with one hand. “Jaskier, what he tried to do…” he began.

“You stopped him. And if you hadn’t, I would have,” she said firmly. “I expected something like this. There’s a reason there are so few female bards, and even fewer that travel alone. They’re viewed by too many as traveling whores that can also play music. It’s why I toned down my look.” She patted his hand, took a deep breath, then her face changed. Her mouth pulled down and her eyes went damp, and a fine tremble entered her hands. Had her scent not remained the same, he would have thought her truly upset and ready to cry. “Now go grab that asshole and drag him downstairs.”

Bemused but obedient, Geralt obeyed. He wasn’t gentle as he dragged the large man, just beginning to twitch with the first signs of waking, down the stairs to the common room where only a handful of patrons remained. Jaskier clutched at the torn edges of the dress and with a voice that seemed to be trying for a discreet hiss but which actually carried very well, addressed the barkeep. “Mara, _why_ would you let him follow me? You _know_ he’s been trying to get under my skirts for weeks now, you _know_ I have no interest in him! He tried – he tried to make me – if the witcher hadn’t been right next door to hear, the gods know what he would have done!” She seemed to dissolve into tears and turned into Geralt, face pressed to his chest.

“Oh hells, Arell, I’m sorry. His father spoiled him far too much.” Mara stepped over the twitching body with barely a look to rub Jaskier on the back as she seemed to start crying. “He waited until I’d gone to check on the food in back and I thought he’d gone home for the evening. Sharie, go fetch that useless father of his! I’ll not stand for _anyone_ attacking my staff or guests!”

One of the serving girls, wide eyed but casting satisfied looks at the groaning heap, nodded and dashed out. Geralt was certain that Jaskier wasn’t the only woman who’d had to put up with unwanted attentions from the man.

What followed was half an hour of one of the greatest performances he’d ever witnessed. Had Jaskier’s scent not remained her normal, sweet smell with hints of faded arousal, he would certainly have believed that she was a combination of angry and traumatized. The blacksmith’s father arrived, clearly having dressed hastily, to take charge. But Jaskier and Mara had him cornered and backing down in quick order and tripping over himself to apologize.

“How can I be expected to stay and perform here? I know he can’t come in here, but he lives in this town! He’ll be at the wedding! You can’t expect me to have to stay and deal with my attacker.”

The alderman doubled the purse size, true panic flooding from his pores as he begged her to perform at the wedding feast. Jaskier bit her lip doubtfully. “I don’t want to disappoint Meylin, of course I don’t, not on her big day, but I just don’t feel _safe_.” She stepped on Geralt’s toes.

He hummed and shifted. Until then, he had been largely ignored. “I would be willing to stay another day to safeguard your performance,” he offered. Jaskier turned to look at him fully, though her voice remained frightened and anxious.

“Would you? I’m not sure – even with the double purse, I can’t offer much for your services. Instruments are so expensive to maintain,” she said doubtfully.

Geralt thought she was pushing things a bit, but the alderman fell for it and offered a purse of equal size for his services as bodyguard for the evening. Rolf would of course have to be at his brother’s wedding, but with Geralt there would surely stay quietly in the background. Really, Geralt would be doing everyone a service in keeping the man from belligerently ruining his brother’s wedding. Geralt agreed, Jaskier, reluctantly, agreed, and Rolf, now awake but very dazed, was dragged out by his father. Geralt could hear the man berating his son the whole way.

The production now over, the remaining patrons paid their bill and filed out. Breyla would be filled with the news of the night’s happening by morning. Mara turned to the pair of them, with Jaskier still safely ensconced in his arms, with a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Well then. It’s good to see that bastard finally got a taste of what’s coming to him. And I have leave to ban him without the alderman taxing me into poverty in retaliation. Well done, Arell.”

Jaskier eyed her apprehensively and Mara waved her off. “Go on. I’m sure you’ll feel very…safe, with the witcher guarding your sleep.”

“I’m sure she will,” Geralt agreed. Before Jaskier could blow it by questioning exactly what Mara knew, he turned and whisked her back up the stairs. Once he had her door closed and locked behind them, he raised an eyebrow down at her. She grinned, unrepentantly. “You gouged that man.”

“I certainly did. Mara wasn’t joking about the taxes. The alderman sets the taxes on each business in town. His son, naturally, doesn’t have to pay any, so he’s driven all other blacksmiths out of town. If a pub or inn tries to throw him out for getting handsy with the staff, the taxes get raised on them until they let him back in. He’s been bragging about getting me to play the wedding, including to a noble guest from the capitol. If I’m not there, he’ll lose a lot of face. Now, do you really want to talk about those idiots some more, or…” her fingers went pointedly to the laces of her bodice.

Geralt quickly shed his armor and clothes, then swept her up and to the bed before she’d made it down to the sensible wool leggings.


	8. Optional smut scene, feel free to skip!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to fade to black a lot, but these two deserved a bit more.

Jaskier’s heartbeat raced as Geralt tumbled them down onto the bed. He tucked his nose behind her ear to breathe in the scent of her, cedar and sweetgrass and that honey sweet smell of arousal blooming once again. His tongue slid along her pulse, lapping up the salt taste of her sweat. Her arms and legs were wrapped around him, shifting restlessly, while her voice moaned out oaths and words of encouragement. Even through the wool leggings he could feel how wet she was for him already, hot and damp against his cock. “Tell me how you like it,” he demanded.

“I – oh, I don’t know,” she gasped. “I haven’t – not since before the mountain, not since the change.”

“Fuck!” he wasn’t proud of the surge of possessiveness that went through him. He was hardly untouched and of course neither was Jaskier really. But knowing that Jaskier hadn’t explored this aspect of her new body, that _he_ would be the first – and only if he had his way – one to share this pleasure with her gave him a primitive thrill right down to his bones. He covered her mouth with his, plunging his tongue inside to tangle with hers. Her fingers slid into his hair, callused fingertips and blunt nails scraping along his scalp and setting his skin to tingling. He couldn’t get enough of the taste of her, nor the feel of her soft, sweat dampened skin against his. He was drowning in their mingling scents and wanted to rub himself over every inch of her, until there was no part of her that he hadn’t marked and claimed. He very nearly _whined_ when her hands started pushing him away but complied, licking his lips and panting as he sat up between her splayed legs. “Too much?” he asked apologetically, trying to wrestle down the inner beast that was usually easier to contain.

“Not enough! Get these damned things off of me!” she struggled with the laces keeping her leggings up, fingers tangling them into a hopeless knot in her impatience.

His inner beast surged up again and he simply reached out and snapped the laces so he could peel the damp wool down her legs and off. When she was finally naked in front of him he just knelt there for a minute, letting his eyes roam over her. He had seen Jaskier nude many times over their travels together, and he could see certain marks had stayed the same. There was the scar on her inner arm after from a brawl that had broken out when her luck at dice had been a little too good for the other gamblers to tolerate. Certain freckles were still in the same places, and the inky patch of curls between her legs was the same shade. But the covering of chest hair was obviously gone and naturally she had a sweet smelling cunt rather than a musky smelling cock. Her breasts were ripe handfuls with hard, cherry red nipples begging for his mouth.

Her eyes were dark, blue little more than a thin ring around blown pupils. She stretched luxuriously, showing off her long, lean frame, and let her hands come to rest on either thigh. She used a foot to poke him in the chest challengingly. “Do you plan to do anything besides look? Because I won’t lie, after all these years, I was hoping for something more athletic and messy.”

Geralt growled and captured her foot, fingers wrapping all the way around her ankle. He scraped his teeth lightly over the delicate jut of bone there then soothed the skin with his tongue. Her scent was stronger a little higher up so he licked his way up her calf to the back of her knee where sweat had gathered. When he had licked that spot clean he turned his attention to her other knee to provide the same service there. She shuddered almost violently when he began to move higher, sucking and licking and biting at the insides of her thighs. He took his time, frankly wallowing in her desperate voice and heady scent all around him. When he finally reached her cunt, he delicately peeled the folds open and closed his eyes, inhaling as deeply as his lungs would allow him. He would _bathe_ in this smell if he could.

A sharp tug on his hair made him open his eyes again to see her pussy shining with moisture and flushed a dark red. He raised his eyes to meet Jaskier’s desperate gaze. “ _Please_ , Geralt! I haven’t come in longer than you can imagine. I swear, if you don’t touch me – fingers, tongue, _something -_ I will walk out of here and jump the first person that I can find!”

“ _No you won’t!_ ” with a possessive growl he dove between her legs. His face was drenched instantly in her slick and he lapped it up, drinking down every sweet drop he could find. She twisted against him, yanking his hair and riding his face as she keened. He latched his mouth over her swollen clit, sucking as his tongue flicked rapidly against the sensitive bud. When he slid two fingers into her tight channel she stiffened all over, inner muscles clenching rhythmically as she came. He gentled his touch, using the flat of his tongue to prolong the pleasure without, hopefully, overstimulating her.

“Fuck, fuck, oh that’s so good, perfect,” she panted. “You perfect bastard, that was amazing, I want to do that again. Fuck, I don’t even miss my cock right now.” Her hands clumsily petted his hair then urged him away from her flesh. “Come _up_ here and kiss me, I want to see what I taste like on your tongue.”

He slithered obligingly up her body, pausing briefly to press a sucking kiss to each nipple that made her whine before reaching her face. She lapped eagerly at his cheeks and chin, tasting her juices, before sucking his tongue into her mouth. He jerked, hips pumping on their own a few times when her hand closed around his cock and stroked, thumb rubbing over the leaking tip. His hands clutched at her hips in an effort to hold himself still and let her get her fill.

She lapped her way down to his neck and sank her teeth in and sucked, pulling blood to the surface. With her head tilted, it put her ear right under his lips so he helped himself. She gasped, hips jerking, and wound her legs around him. “Get _in_ me,” she ordered. “Right now, Geralt, don’t make me wait anymore.” He reached between and wrapped his hand around the one she had on his cock and together they moved him into place. When he felt the scorching wet of her wrap around the head of his cock he pulled her hand away and started to push in. She was tight, and her whole body went rigid against him as he split her apart.

He pushed himself up enough to see her face. “Alright?”

“I think so,” she said, but her fingers flexed against his shoulders and her body didn’t relax. “It’s – weird. I’m not used to – Geralt, there’s a hole in me where there never was before, it’s just – different.”

“We don’t have to – “

“Yes, we most certainly do! I _want_ this. You. Just – “ She shifted restlessly.

“Hmm.” He reached between them and rubbed slow circles against her clit with his thumb. Her hips jerked and her breath caught and inside, her muscles went from tight against the unfamiliar intrusion to flexing. He moved deeper in increments until their bodies were flush then made himself hold still. He kept up the slow circles against her as her hips started to pick up a rhythm. “You’re so tight,” he muttered, letting his lips graze her neck, her cheek. “So hot and wet, and you smell so good, Jas. I could stay between your legs for hours, days. Drink nothing but you and never be thirsty again.”

“Oh fuck, _now_ he finds his words.” But she didn’t sound angry and her legs went around his waist. Her heels dug into his ass. With feet and hips, she urged him to start moving, rocking against each other. He pulled his hand away and shifted, tilting her hips so he was going in at a better angle for his cock to graze her clit with each motion. “Gods, that’s so good, love your cock, fuck it, I’m writing songs about your cock, the continent has to know about this,” she gasped. Her babble continued as he kept moving, as he curled to give proper attention to her long throat and further to tight nipples. He grazed one with his teeth and she keened, convulsing around him. He fucked her through it and when she opened her eyes, dazed, gave her a filthy grin. “W-what?”

“Still weird?”

“ _Bastard_. Shut up and fuck me.”

“How poetic.” She huffed but it trailed off into a moan as he picked up the pace. She carded a hand through his chest hair and trailed the other over his back. She leaned up to bite at his neck again and he almost lost it, had to shift his grip to the bedding so he could clench his fists, growled low and felt her lips curl in a smile against him. “Jaskier, fuck,”

“We are, we will, I want to never stop. I swear I can feel you in my chest, you’re so deep in me. I’m _drenched_ , Geralt, you’ve made me so wet. All for you. Never gonna be anyone else, ever again. No one else could compare. You’ve ruined me for anyone else,” she vowed. “Gods, I think you’re going to make me come again, I’ve never – fuck!” She bucked when he pinched her nipple, tugging a bit while he sucked her earlobe back into his mouth. Her nails raked down his back, leaving tingling trails as she convulsed around him again.

He couldn’t hold back again and started to slam his hips into hers, driving his cock into her at a furious pace. He tried to pull out but her legs clamped around his waist and her fingers dug into his ass and she hissed, “No, you come inside me, damn it. I want you dripping down my thighs for hours after this!” With a muted roar he spilled, grinding against her, sending her into aftershocks if her gasps and twitches were anything to go by.

He panted against her neck while her legs relaxed and fell to the side and her hands trailed, gentle now, along his back and sides. He pressed a soft kiss against her then swiped his tongue along her slowing pulse, tasting the sweat that sang her arousal to his senses.

“I want to suck your cock next time,” she said thoughtfully. “Would you mind? I’ve been wondering for _years_ what it tastes like.”

“Keep talking like that and next time is going to happen right now,” he warned.

It was apparently not much of a threat because she hummed and shifted, internal muscles clenching around his still hard prick. “You could go again already? That’s lovely, Geralt! I’m usually good for at least a couple rounds myself, but I think this new anatomy of mine could go all night if I we’ve the energy.”

Geralt chuckled a little. He’d known full well that Jaskier had always had a fairly high sex drive. He certainly wasn’t going to complain if he was now to receive the benefit of that. “Hmm. I’m glad you enjoyed that.”

“I can’t feel my toes,” she said cheerfully. “I couldn’t imagine a better way to break my fast.”

“So you said. Not since – before the mountain?” He wasn’t sure he had a right to ask. He had still been so wrapped up in Yennefer then, in the weird pull that drew him to her and had him dancing to her every whim.

“Ah, yes, I did mention that, didn’t I?” Her cheeks heated and her gaze skittered away from his. “I’ve always liked sex but – if I’m not happy, I’m not interested,” she admitted. “I wasn’t happy after the mountain, and no one that I met could lift my spirits enough for me to be interested.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, helpless. He didn’t know what else to do in the face of her seeming embarrassed that she hadn’t been out fornicating her way across the continent the last few years. “I haven’t either, since the mountain,” he offered.

Her gaze sharpened on his face. “Really? But I thought – Yennefer was there, at Kaer Morhen,” she said tentatively.

“She was right, on the mountain. What we had, there was no way to know what was real and what was the djinn’s magic. There’s a connection there, but she was able to find a way to – not break it, but block it,” he explained. “Once she did, well, I wasn’t terribly interested in that with her, anymore.” He traced a finger over her lips, smiling a little when her tongue darted out to lick at it. “Instead, my thoughts went back to where they’d always been before. To an obnoxious bard with more guts than sense.”

“Hey! I have sense,” she objected. “I had the good sense to fall for you, didn’t I?”

“Jas, fluff, that may be the least sensible thing you’ve ever done,” he told her. “But I will be damned if I let you go again, so you’ll simply have to live with the consequences.”

“You mean, consequences like being properly ravished until I can’t feel my toes? Oh the horror.” She shifted and then frowned when the motion had him slipping out of her.

“Alright?” he asked, sliding a hand down to cup her sex, still swollen and hot and wet with both of them.

“Better than,” she assured him. She slid her own hand down to cover his and pressed, arching her back a little as his fingers rubbed against her. Then she pulled his hand to her mouth and sucked his fingers in, lapping at their combined juices. “Hmm, your come even tastes like cloves,” she hummed. His eyebrows went up. “That’s what you smell like, to me,” she explained. “Cloves and honey. That was one of the best bits of being a cat – I could smell you even better than normal. It’s salty, of course, but.” She slid her fingers back into her mouth and hummed.

Geralt looked down at his cock, which had never fully softened and which was rising once again to full hardness. “Then we are well matched, I think. You smell like cedar and sweetgrass, and when you’re aroused you smell like honey.”

“It was just meant to be, I guess. Come here and make me scream, Geralt.” She pushed her hand into his hair and pulled his mouth down to her own.


	9. Chapter 9

Much later, he lay propped on his side, gently tracing his fingers over the soft, delicate skin of her breasts. She hummed, voice rather wrecked, and carded her fingers through his chest hair. “What made you choose this form?” he asked curiously.

“I didn’t. Dahlia did. I simply asked to look different, but to keep the same quality voice. She decided to go this far.”

“How did she mask the smell of magic?” Jaskier froze. Alarmed, Geralt cupped her cheek and turned her face to meet his eyes. “Jaskier, what is it? What did she do?”

“It’s – nothing. Just. Something I haven’t really wanted to think about,” she admitted. “Uh, she said that normally, changing someone’s form is very difficult, and another mage or a witcher would sense the magic, like with the curse. But. She told me I’m not entirely human. She thinks I’m half elf, from a particular bloodline that lives near Kerack, where I’m from. Apparently, they’re natural shapeshifters. She thinks I inherited the ability and might one day be able to do it on my own.”

“You object to not being full human?”

“No, I object to having been lied to my whole life. Geralt, I’m not _aging_. I didn’t even really notice, but Dahlia did. Not one silver hair. And the last time I saw my mother, she looked the exact same as she always has – not one day older. Why wouldn’t she tell me that I’m not human?”

“Her ears look human?” Jaskier nodded. “Odd that she would hide her race but not try to blend in beyond that. Do you think your father knows?”

“Who knows?” she said resignedly. “He’s not exactly the chatty type. Honestly, it was an unpleasant house to grow up in. I’m simply thankful I wasn’t the oldest. At least I was allowed to go to University – if I’d been the oldest, it would have been private tutors and an arranged marriage by the time I was eighteen.”

“You’re highborn, then?”

Jaskier blinked then laughed a little. “Well, yes. Jaskier wasn’t the name my parents gave me. I took that as my name when I started to travel. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

“What a mouthful.”

“The weight of it was beyond stifling.”

“Hm.” He lowered his head to trace his lips along her jaw to her ear. She had sensitive ears, he’d found. He nibbled lightly, delighting in the shiver that ran through her, the clenching of her fingers against his chest, the quickening of her heartbeat. Her legs parted to make room for him as he eased himself over top of her, her hands moving to sweep down his back to grab his ass. “How’s _this_ weight?” he growled, breath ghosting over her neck.

“Perfect. I could stay like this forever. Or, well, I suppose it could be a _little_ better,” she mused. He hummed a question into her neck. Whatever she wanted, he would do his best to provide. She planted her feet and tilted her hips, seeking. “You could be _in_ me,” she suggested.

“I will be. Soon,” he promised, then moved lower, lapping the salty taste of dried sweat mixing with fresh from the valley between her breasts.

“You always have the best plans.”

~

Jaskier finished braiding her hair then eyed herself critically in the small mirror. She wasn’t a patch on what Yennefer tended to look like on a day to day basis, but she thought for a modest, small town bard that she’d cleaned up alright. Geralt, of course, looked much the same as always. There hadn’t been time to get him any formal clothes, and anyway, Jaskier was pretty sure he wouldn’t have bothered even if there had been, since he was openly, officially, attending solely as Jaskier’s bodyguard. His only concession had been to leave his swords at the inn, although the giant knife at his hip wasn’t much better. At any other event, Jaskier might have cared. Under the circumstances, it was only fitting.

Besides, she _liked_ the tight leather pants. The only way his ass looked better was naked.

She could see his face in the reflection behind her and saw his nostrils flare slightly. A growl rumbled out of his chest. “If you keep thinking those thoughts, we won’t make it out of the room,” he warned.

“Down, darling.” She turned and moved into his arms, thrilling that she was not just allowed, but actively wanted there, and tilted her face up for a kiss. “The flesh is willing, but a bit sore and could use a break.”

His eyes clouded over. “I was too rough.”

“You absolutely were not. I’m sore, darling, not injured. It’s a good sore, and please don’t say you don’t know the difference.” He still seemed unsure, so she threaded her fingers in his hair and pulled his head down, a bit roughly. “I _know_ you liked when I bit you. It lingered for a little before it healed. It’s the exact same, except that I don’t heal as fast as you. A few hours, and maybe a warm bath tonight, and I’ll be fine.”

“You will tell me if I ever –“

“Geralt, when have I _ever_ been shy about complaining over something causing me discomfort?” His lips finally quirked up at that, eyes clearing a little. “Now let’s go. Meylin actually is a sweet young lady, she should be able to enjoy her wedding feast. And for that, she will need music!”

The town hall was festive, with wine and food flowing freely. Jaskier had been set up in a corner where she could see everything and the acoustics would help her voice and lute carry. Rolf was present, both eyes blackened and his nose crooked and swollen. He sat at the far end of the family table, glowering at everyone but keeping his mouth shut. When his gaze fell on her and filled with anger, Geralt shifted to stand beside her rather than behind, making the man blanch and sullenly reach for his wine.

She started the night with lively jigs so the guests and newlyweds could dance. As the wine flowed and the afternoon turned to evening, she started slowing down the songs. Slower dances and then, as guests were breaking off into smaller groups or couples, she shifted into slow love songs, several of her own composition that she’d never had the chance to play before. By then, Rolf had left and Geralt had relaxed enough to take a seat a short way away, and she couldn’t help letting her eyes drift over to him.

_“Wise men say,_

_Only fools rush in._

_But I can’t help_

_Falling in love with you”_

The bride and groom leaned into each other, gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes as her voice rang out, slow and sweet, crooning to every heart that had ever fallen head over heels for someone. Though the performance was meant to set the mood to send off the newly married couple, every last bit of emotion in her, in her voice and fingers, was for the golden eyed man sitting still and intense almost but not quite in reach. The story of her life, really, up until yesterday.

The newlyweds slipped away amidst cheers and well wishes when her song trailed away to silence. Tired, Jaskier flexed sore fingers and swallowed down some wine before rising to pack her lute away. The alderman approached with two bulging purses, accompanied by a richly dressed, middle aged man.

“Arell, that was an amazing performance! As we have come to expect of one of your beauty and talent. My friend here, Baron de Frantz, was absolutely –“

“I can speak for myself, Frederick,” the Baron grumbled. “He has been boasting of your talents for some weeks now and for once, he wasn’t exaggerating. My wife and daughters would enjoy your little tunes. I would offer you a post in my household.”

“I am most honored, Your Lordship, but I have already accepted a contract elsewhere. Geralt has agreed to escort me to my new post tomorrow. We head north to Hengfors.”

The Baron looked sour and cast his friend a displeased look. “Odd, I was under the impression you were stationed here at some little _inn_.”

“I only recently received word of the post and stayed only long enough to fulfill my contract with the good alderman here. Meylin is a lovely girl; I wanted her to have the music she favored for her wedding feast. Should I pass once again through Redania, I would be pleased to entertain your wife – for free, of course, to make up for any disappointment my new post may have caused.”

“Hmph. Perhaps. If we have not found another.”

“Of course, Your Lordship.” Jaskier inclined her head as the Baron stalked away.

“What are you talking about, you fool girl?” the alderman hissed. “You have received no offer – no messages have arrived for you since you’ve been here! You have embarrassed me in front of the Baron. Do you know how lucky you are that he offered?”

Jaskier glared at him. “Lucky?” she hissed back. “Baron Frantz is a known skinflint, and his wife is known to have her staff beaten if she’s in a lousy mood. Being stuck in that household is no favor to me! We will take our payment, alderman, and take our leave.” With Geralt flexing his shoulders behind her, the alderman had little choice but to hand over the promised coin. “Thank you and good evening!” Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and stalked out.

Once they were out in the cold night air, she blew out a breath. “I will be glad to see the last of this town. Most of the people aren’t bad, but that arrogant blowhard and his witless, hamster-cocked son really bring down the air quality around here.”

“Hm.” Geralt crowded close, a hand settled at the small of her back. “Going north, are we?”

“I really don’t care where we go, as long as we leave. Hengfors was the first place I could think of. He’s too minor in rank to know many people there, so he’s unlikely to be able to follow up to see if I was lying, if he chooses to be offended enough to want to follow through. Honestly, royalty is actually easier to deal with! Arrogant, sure, but they almost never put enough stock in appearances to pull that sort of nonsense. The lower the rank, the more they try to flaunt it. The whole noble class should just be disbanded,” she grumped.

“Hm, interesting notion from you, viscount de Lettenhove,” Geralt teased.

“Oh shush.” She jabbed her elbow into his gut. He didn’t even pretend to grunt, the big jerk.

They reached the inn and Geralt pulled open the door for her. Inside, Mara gave her a wide smile. “We’ve had folks coming in, filled with praise for your lovely singing. Meylin must be over the moon.”

“I hope so! That was rather the point.”

“There’s a bath waiting for you upstairs. Should be nice and hot.”

“Can we get tea with honey sent up?” Geralt inquired. He jerked his head towards Jaskier. “She sang herself nearly hoarse.”

“I’ll put the kettle on, witcher. Mind you lock your door, Arell. Rolf’s been heard down at the Endless Cask, getting quite drunk,” she warned.

“Thanks for the warning.” Impulsively, she leaned over the bar to kiss the woman’s cheek. “You’ve been just grand, Mara. I’ll be sad to leave you.”

“Not half so sad as I’ll be to lose the best bard I’ve ever played host to. But unless your witcher plans to move in too, it might be for the best. Go on, you’ve worked hard tonight. I’ll be up soon with the tea.”

Geralt preceded her up the stairs and checked her room over thoroughly before letting her inside. “Geralt, you broke his face with one blow,” she reasoned as she hung up her lute. “You can’t think, when he knows you’ll be lurking, that he’d be fool enough to try anything.”

“Jas, you’ve tried to sing, play, _and_ dance next to a fire while drunk. Drunk people do not think things through, and I would rather not be surprised.” He came up behind her and started to unbraid her hair. When it was loose, he combed his fingers through the strands and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “I have plans for the evening that don’t involve gutting anyone. I don’t want them interrupted.”

Jaskier stretched, hands going behind her to lock behind Geralt’s neck. “What kinds of plans?”

“Hot tea and a bath, to ease your throat and…other parts.”

“And then?” a yawn rather ruined her attempt and flirtation.

“Then we’ll see if you’re still awake,” he said dryly.

Laughing, Jaskier began to unlace her dress.

Geralt got her settled in the bath. When the tea arrived, he dragged the chair over next to the tub to place it in easy reach before he began to strip. Jaskier felt a heat that had nothing to do with either bath or tea begin to pool in her belly as she watched. She’d had her hands and tongue all over those muscles last night and this morning, but she still hadn’t had enough. She doubted she ever would. She scooted forward eagerly when he moved to climb in behind her. Amazingly, as though by some occult powers, Mara’d had the foresight to fill the tub with rather less water than usual so that when he climbed in, it didn’t slosh over the sides. Jaskier melted back against him, going as boneless as possible as the heat began to leach the soreness out of her back and backside, obediently sipping at the honeyed tea that he pressed into her hand.

“That song,” Geralt began when she finished her mug. “The one you sang at the end.”

“Hmm?”

“You wrote that one, didn’t you?”

Jaskier hesitated. “Well…yes. Somewhat over twenty years ago, in fact. It never seemed quite like the right time to sing it until now.”

“That long ago, hmm? I’m used to your love songs being rather more…bawdy.”

“True. And I’ve certainly plenty of fresh inspiration to write a whole slew of new ones in the same vein.”

“Jas, please do not write songs about my cock.”

“Too late!” She yelped when he pinched her side and relaxed again when he immediately rubbed the slight sting. “What do you want to ask?”

“The way you were looking at me while you sang. Who did you write it for?”

“For you, you dolt. Oh, I felt quite the fool when I realized I had fallen so very hard for you, my witcher. Hopelessly, I thought. I was used to falling in and out of love with people as they crossed my path, but what I felt for you was – a bonfire, when all others were merely a candle.”

“I’m sorry I made you wait.”

“It was worth the wait. **You** are worth the wait.”

“I hope I never make you feel otherwise.”

“You won’t. Even if you left me tomorrow, I can’t imagine I would ever feel otherwise. I didn’t even when I thought I would never see you again.” His arms tightened around her, for the moment lacking in lust but filled with the love he didn’t seem fully able to articulate yet. She hummed a little, then began to sing softly.

_“My love, my love, my fearless love,_

_I will not say goodbye._

_Sea may rise,_

_Sky may fall,_

_My love will never die._

_Go on, go on,_

_Go bravely on,_

_Into the blackest night._

_Hold my breath,_

_Til your return,_

_My love will never die._

_My heart, my heart,_

_My drowning heart,_

_Oh all the tears I’ve cried,_

_Oh I may weep, forevermore,_

_My love will never die”_

His arms tightened around her as she sang, and by the time she finished, his breath was ragged in her ear and she thought his arms might fuse into an unbreakable band around her. She didn’t think she would mind if they did. “Why does that one hurt?” he asked roughly, sounding half bewildered, almost angry.

“Because I hurt when I wrote it. I thought you’d follow me down the mountain, you know. Maybe say something half sarcastic but really apologizing, but you didn’t. It took a while but I – I came to accept that you really wanted me out of your life and I would never see you again. That didn’t mean I stopped loving you, though. As long as any part of me exists, I will love you. In this life and the next.”

“I don’t deserve that.”

“Not your choice to make.” It was difficult with the hold on her, but she twisted in his arms enough to be able to see his face. Geralt was staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, but throat working as he swallowed down some emotion that was apparently too much for him at the moment. “Hey. Look at me, please.” His eyes flicked down to her face. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about this now. I shouldn’t be throwing so much at you.”

“I should be able…”

“No.” Jaskier covered his mouth with her hand, stopping whatever self-criticism was about to spill out. “Emotions are – they’re my bread and butter, Geralt. I make a very good living channeling my emotions and the emotions of others. You’ve lived your entire life being told to hide them or being told that you flat out don’t have them. How often have you even had a soft touch that you didn’t have to pay for? Not nearly often enough,” she said, not letting him answer that. “You’re a man of action, I’m a man, well person, of words. I know you feel, witcher-mine.” She nudged his arms into loosening so she could twist the rest of the way around to straddle his lap. “You have already given me the words I needed to hear. You may come to regret that – there’s no place in the world that I will not follow you now,” she warned, cupping his face. “When you’re ready, you’ll give me other words that you need to say. Until then, I will listen to the way you touch me, watch me, and put yourself between me and any possible threat.”

“I will kill anyone who tries to take you from me,” is what he managed to say. She heard so much more, and would never again try to convince herself that it was just wishful thinking.

“I know. Now kiss me and take me to bed.” He surged against her, mouth coming down over hers almost desperately. She moaned, and it was only the first of many that he rang from her throat that night.


	10. Chapter 10

Though the plan was to leave the following day, Geralt didn’t wake her at the crack of dawn to hurry her onto the road as he had done in the past. She got to wake up slowly, stretching luxuriously against the wall of heat at her back, nuzzling into the enormous bicep that served as her pillow. “Hmm, what time is it?”

“An hour past dawn.”

“And you let me sleep? Darling man.” She rolled over and flung a leg over his hip to plant a few kisses on his chest, rubbing her cheek against him to enjoy the feel of his chest hair against her face. Her lips and thighs still stung a bit with the beard burn he’d given her the night before. “Are we heading back into the mountains?” His silence was somehow very loud. “Geralt?”

“I think we should go to Kerack.”

She sat up, eyes wide. “What on earth for?”

“This…ability, you seem to have. I don’t like that others can control it when you can’t. I don’t like that someone else can twist you into any shape they please and you not having a way to fix that. We should speak with your mother about how to control it.”

“Geralt, you can’t be serious. The last time I went, they almost didn’t let me leave! They tried to _marry me off_. I had to climb out a window and scale down the outside, and believe me, that’s not as easy as I make it sound!”

“You’ve had plenty of practice,” he said dryly. She flushed a little. “Seriously, Jaskier. I won’t let them keep you there, but we need some idea of what you can do and how to do it. You could return to your usual shape without help,” he coaxed.

“You don’t like the way I look?” She glanced down at herself. “I thought I turned out okay. Not as beautiful as Yennefer, maybe, but I didn’t think I was that bad.”

“I want you no matter what you look like, but I can’t exactly make you scream the way I like if someone turns you into a cat again.”

She wrinkled her nose at the thought. “You have a point there.” She sighed and flopped down to drape over his chest. “I don’t know if I’m ready to hear the reason behind the lies, because it won’t be a good one and they won’t be sorry and somehow it’ll be me in the wrong for being upset about it to begin with. And then I’ll get to hear how disappointing I am and how I’m shirking my responsibilities to the family and I should do my duty and give up the whole wandering around playing silly little songs.”

“I can break their noses, too.”

She laughed, some of the anxiety his suggestion had conjured vanishing at the thought of her very proper, strict, and serious father walking around with two black eyes and a crooked nose. “Well, that would certainly be something to see.”

“We need answers, Jas.”

“It’s the sensible thing, I know.” She looked up at him. “They won’t be decent to you, you know. They aren’t decent to regular humans that they see as below their station, they definitely won’t be decent to you.”

“I don’t give a fuck what they think of me. If I didn’t think this was important, I would never suggest you return. If I knew of another way to get the answers, I would take that instead.”

“I know.” With a heavy sigh, she reluctantly nodded. “Alright. We can go to Kerack. Just –“ She cut herself off, squeezing her eyes shut tightly.

“Just what, fluff?”

“Just – please, don’t think less of me when you meet them.”

“Hm.” He lifted her up until her face was level with his and waited until she gave in and opened her eyes. “I’m a little insulted that you would worry about such a thing, fluff. The words or actions of another could never change what I think of you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –“

He stopped her mouth with a kiss. “I promise you, it will be fine.”

She believed him. Geralt had never made promises lightly and had never broken one. She would have to trust in that. Still, she pressed against him, needing the reassurance of his touch. He gave it with the generosity that was as intrinsic to his nature as his denial of the same.

In spite of their ultimate destination, Jaskier felt almost buoyant as she packed up her belongings in preparation while Geralt was out buying supplies for the road. She was humming as she slung her rather bulging pack over her shoulder, pleased with the faint clicking of coin from inside. Her daily take while playing here hadn’t been fantastic, it wasn’t the right kind of crowd for that. But she’d been able to save all of it, since the room and meals had been part of the deal. With the double payout from the wedding, they wouldn’t need to camp if they were within range of an inn, nor take any jobs unless it pleased them.

She said her goodbyes to Mara and the serving girls. They had all been very good to her, and she was rather sad to be leaving them. She laughed when Mara wordlessly poked a bruise in the shape of Geralt’s mouth that was just peeking out from under the neckline of her shirt and just shrugged at the knowing, amused look the older woman gave her. She left after promising to stop in for a visit if she were ever in the area and made her way to the stable. Roach tossed her head in greeting. “Hello, lovely. I’ve brought you a treat!” She fed the horse slices of somewhat withered apple and kissed the velvety nose when Roach deemed the treat acceptable enough to allow it. Offering made and accepted, she worked to get the horse saddled and her pack secured.

Heavy footfalls were her only warning seconds before a hard grip pulled at her hair, throwing her onto her back in the straw. Roach let out a trumpet of anger nearby. Dazed, more from the shock of the attack than anything else, it took her precious few seconds to gather her wits enough to look for her attacker. By then, Rolf was on her, one hand back in her hair and yanking her head back, the other around her throat. “You ungrateful fucking slut,” he snarled, breath rank with the stench of too much ale washing over her face. “I was good to you and you go spreading your whore legs for some inhuman beast no better than the monsters he hunts?”

She struggled. Of course she struggled. But he was straddling her, pinning her to the floor with his bulk, and she hadn’t bothered to strap her dagger on her. Not with Geralt as a hulking wall of protective muscle. She was stuck using her hands and clawed at his face, striking at his broken nose, and trying to gouge at his eyes. He kept tossing his head back so that she couldn’t get enough pressure to do enough damage to get him off of her. Spots were starting to dance in front of her eyes from the lack of air. She flailed wildly and grabbed the first thing she could and gave it a yank with all her strength. He howled with pain, ear ripped and bleeding. The hand around her throat loosened enough for her to draw in breath.

And then with a roar Geralt was there and Rolf went flying. Geralt didn’t even draw a weapon. He just used his fists and pounded at the blacksmith, shrugging off the blows the man managed to land in a clumsy defense. Rolf broke and tried to run, scrambling and falling, covered in his own blood. Geralt followed, relentless. He picked Rolf up by the hair and threw him, following around the corner and out of Jaskier’s sight.

Jaskier scrambled to her feet, wheezing through a throat that was beginning to swell, and chased after. Everyone from the surrounding buildings was pouring into the street to see what was causing Rolf to bellow and scream. Geralt’s face was almost blank as he beat the man, targeting his hands and arms. Jaskier flinched at the sound of breaking bones. Many bones. Rolf wouldn’t be using his hands for much of anything for a long time. And then Geralt delivered a punishing strike to his collar bone, then twisted his arm at an unnatural angle. With a short, cut off scream, Rolf passed out.

Geralt looked like he would continue, but Jaskier was all too aware of the large crowd, too many of whom were already staring fearfully at her witcher. She hurried forward, right into his arms. “Enough, love. Please,” she rasped out. It hurt to talk.

Geralt tilted her head up to examine her neck. “I’ll kill him,” he snarled when he saw the bruising and swelling.

“No, you won’t. You’ve crippled him. He can’t hurt anyone else. Leave him to wallow.”

He ground his teeth, eyes blazing, but his fingers were gentle where they traced over the bruising. “I want to cut off his hands.”

She picked up his hand and pressed a kiss to his fingertips. “No. Then we’d just be dealing with cleaning his foul blood off your sword.”

He frowned. “Stop talking, you’re hurting yourself.” He pulled her close, one hand at the small of her back, the other cupping the back of her head. His fingers unerringly found the swollen patch of skin where Rolf had nearly ripped the hair out from the force of his grip. A low growl rumbled in his chest and his eyes flashed with renewed fire.

Mara and the girls pushed to the front of the crowd that had gathered. Mara assessed the situation and turned. “Go fetch the healer, quickly! Tell her that Arell could lose her voice.”

Geralt grunted and turned away for a moment. He ripped a strip from the bottom of his shirt and filled it with clean snow. With gentle pressure, he held the compress to her neck. Jaskier shivered but let him tend to her. There was an uncertain quality to the mood, and it could turn ugly any minute. Geralt seemed to need to tend to her, and the people around them needed to see him doing it, or Breyla would turn into another ugly story and undo years of work clearing his reputation.

The healer arrived with the alderman and the Baron on her heals. Jaskier braced for trouble and wasn’t disappointed.

“What the hell –“ The alderman took in his son’s condition and tried to force the healer towards him. “Help him! And you! You _beast_ , we should never have allowed you in our town!”

Jaskier felt her temper flare. “ _Don’t you call him that!”_ The painful rasp of her voice added a dramatic edge to her words, catching attention. “You’ve let that arrogant, barely competent, slimy creep get away with abusing the women of this town, taxing any business that tries to ban him into poverty, and _look what he did_!” She pulled the compress away from her neck to show the by now livid bruising. “You did _nothing_ when he tried to rape me two nights ago! Geralt showed mercy then by just breaking his nose and today, because I choose to leave with him as escort, your son tried to murder me! He’s still alive – that’s more than could be said for me if Geralt hadn’t arrived in time!”

“What’s this about raising taxes?” the Baron asked. It was clear he didn’t care overmuch for the rest of what she’d said, and in a flash, she realized the situation. The Baron wasn’t actually a friend to the alderman – he was the one that had appointed him to run things. Breyla was under his purview.

Mara cleared her throat. “It’s true, your Lordship. Rolf got handsy with my youngest girl – just fifteen at the time. I kicked him out and refused to let him back in. Frederick raised my quarterly taxes so high I would have gone out of business in less than a year had I not lifted the ban. I tried to pay, but it was the lean season and I could only manage the payment once. And it’s true about his attack on Arell – Frederick had to pay her double and match the price to have the witcher play bodyguard for her at the wedding last night. We’ve only Rolf as blacksmith because of him, too. We’ve had others try to settle but he taxes them so high there’s no chance they can make a living.”

“I did not authorize higher taxes – and I’ve seen no increase in the taxes sent to me, Frederick,” the Baron said crossly. “And now I find you allow your son to be unruly and assault people. Breyla will get a reputation as unsafe, and caravans will start going around, which will cause a drop in income all around. It seems an audit is in order.”

“Is that all?” Geralt snarled. “No consequences for the attack?”

De Frantz raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought your kind concerned yourselves with monster business, not human business.”

Geralt bared his teeth in something that wasn’t even close to a smile. “Someone that tries to rape another **is** a monster in my book – would you care to have me deal with him as such?”

“No! Healer, attend to my son this instant. Baron, this is all a misunderstanding – it’s clear I was mistaken about this girl, true, causing such trouble as this, but the rest of it –“ Frederick began to babble.

Jaskier ignored him. “Baron, it’s true that I’m hardly a famous person – a nobody, really. But I have friends in Oxenfurt. I am very close to the bard Jaskier,” she warned. “He won’t be pleased if Rolf is permitted to get off with no consequences for his attempt to rape and then murder me. And our Guild is hardly to look on it with any great favor either. If these lands want to see anyone who can do more than huff a tune on a tin whistle, I suggest you consider the laws that both father AND son have broken.”

“I will do more than suggest,” Geralt warned. “One word to _my_ guild and there isn’t a witcher alive that will set foot in all of Redania. I am quite certain Jaskier will make sure the entire country knows exactly why, as well.”

Low murmurs began to circulate through the crowd at that. To have the whole country blacklisted by the witcher’s guild would cause panic. It may take years, but as monsters were allowed to kill without anyone to stop them, the country would slowly devolve into chaos. Villages would be abandoned first, cause shortages in crops. Trade would begin skipping the country when the outlying roads became too dangerous. The soldiers would try, but there were reasons that witchers existed, as little as folk wanted to think about or acknowledge it. Jaskier’s threat would cause unrest – Geralt’s would cause death and mass evacuations.

The Baron, however arrogant, was no fool. He gestured to one of his men. “Escort the former alderman to his home and assist him in packing. He may take clothing only. Anything else will remain until a thorough audit can be done. You – when the healer has tended his wounds, take _that_ one,” he gestured at Rolf, “to a cell to await trial.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “And now I have to find a new alderman.”

“I suggest Mara,” Jaskier piped up even as the healer began to prod at her neck. “At least in the interim.”

“Fine, whatever. You, woman, oversee the cleanup of this mess and come speak to me when it’s done.” He turned to walk away, his remaining men falling into step. “This is why I _hate_ weddings,” he said sourly before he was out of earshot.

“The swelling is the most dangerous part,” the healer told her, drawing her and Geralt’s attention. “If anything should aggravate it and cause it to worsen, it could close your airway. Put the cold compress back on. I will make a tonic for you that should help. Rest your throat, girl,” she added kindly. “We’ve all heard you sing, and we don’t want to damage your voice. It will hurt to swallow for a few days, so you’ll want to keep to soft foods. Drink cold water to help ease the discomfort and swelling.” She turned and her look soured when her gaze fell on Rolf. “Someone get him to my place. It will take time to set all those bones.”

The ex-alderman was ringing his hands. “But-but she’s just a bard,” he muttered. “Everyone knows they’re no better than they ought to be.”

Geralt growled and the man went chalky.

It took another hour before they could actually leave. Geralt hovered over her while Mara arranged for a few young men to collect Rolf and drag him off, and then quite sensibly re-packed the provisions Geralt had bought to now include grain for porridge and tea and honey to help her throat. When the healer came back, Geralt all but snatched the tonic out of her hands, clearly eager to be gone. Unimpressed, the healer just lectured him on how much and how often Jaskier was to drink it and then, horrifying Jaskier and Geralt in equal measure, had given instructions on what to do if something should aggravate her throat into swelling shut. It involved a hole in her neck and a glass tube inserted, so Jaskier did her best to block it out. It was, however, plenty of incentive to not skip a dose of the stuff, no matter how pungent the smell.

After another round of goodbyes, much shorter this time, Geralt finally boosted her up onto a clearly annoyed Roach’s back. He directed them out of the north gate but swung them in a wide arc around the town to face southeast, avoiding the road for the moment in favor of cutting straight across country. Every hour or so he stopped to scoop fresh snow into a compress for her throat. Jaskier’s neck and chest were more or less permanently damp for the first day of travel, but with Geralt as a wall of heat against her back, she wasn’t cold.


	11. Chapter 11

They camped in a small clearing. The trees around them helped to block the breeze that blew up and couldn’t decide if it was still winter or finally spring. Geralt got a fire started and more or less plopped Jaskier on her backside beside it. He wouldn’t let her lift a finger to gather more firewood, or lay out bedrolls, or even get a pot of porridge started, though she was the only one that would be eating it. Geralt disappeared for a short time into the trees and came back with a rabbit for himself, preferring to save the dried meat that he’d bought for a leaner night, which he wouldn’t let her help clean and spit over the fire.

He at least let her hold her own tin cup, filled with first a dose of the tonic, then a mug of tea with honey, though he brewed the tea himself.

Jaskier let him. She had promised to listen to his actions until he could find words, and she wasn’t going to squash the fussing that was the only way he had at the moment to express his worry. And truthfully, part of her enjoyed it. She would give it a couple days, let the swelling and bruising begin to subside, before insisting on taking on her part of making camp.

When it came time to turn in, she happily wiggled under the bedroll with him and slid a hand under his shirt. He caught it and tugged it right back out. “You’re not quiet, fluff,” he muttered when she gave him a wounded look. “You’re supposed to be resting your voice, remember?”

“That’s just – so unfair,” she grumbled when it was clear that her pouting wasn’t going to get her anywhere. “Finally get a chance to live out twenty years of fantasies and that moron ruins it.”

“We’ll have plenty more nights on the road to live out any fantasy you like,” he promised.

“I like the sound of that.”

They had to return to the usual routine of one walking, one riding the next day to save poor Roach’s back. Bored with not being able to talk or sing, Jaskier unpacked the lute and played, earning several pokes throughout the day as habit and the overwhelming desire overcame her good sense and she started to sing. At least Geralt left off with the cold compresses. They had done all the good they were going to do the first day, so they stuck to resting her voice and the tonic.

The weather finally broke for good as they reached the capitol. Jaskier had finished the tonic by then and the swelling was gone, but apparently some visible bruising still remained because Geralt was adamant that she continue resting her voice until they’d gotten another healer check her over. She was all but growling herself by the time they tracked one down and had the bemused woman examine a healed injury and give the all clear for Jaskier to speak and sing as she wished.

“I told you!” Jaskier burst out. “My voice is my livelihood, Geralt, I know how to take care of it. You could have listened to me three days ago when I took the last dose of the tonic and the last few nights could have been _even better_ but no! Honestly, it’s like you like to suffer or something….” Jaskier let flood of words out while Geralt calmly paid the healer and then guided her back out into the street to find an inn. He didn’t say a word through finding a clean looking inn and paying for a room and a bath, though Jaskier’s constant stream of words garnered a few looks. He continued to stay silent as they made their way up to their room and while a tub was brought in and filled. By the time the tub was half full of steaming water and Geralt was dismissing the two young men that had carried in bucketful after bucketful for them, she was finally beginning to slow down.

“Feel better?” he asked mildly when she paused for breath. His hands went to the fastenings of his armor almost lazily, as if the answer to his question were of very little interest. Jaskier watched him disrobe for a minute, licking her lips when he pulled his shirt off over his head. “Jas?” he prompted as he bent to unfasten his boots.

“Hmm?”

“Do you intend to bathe in your clothes, fluff?”

Jaskier blinked a couple times, then grinned. Ignoring the laces holding her vest closed over her shirt, she tugged both up and over her head, then kicked off her boots. She was naked before Geralt, head start be damned. She stepped into the tub and waited impatiently until he had his pants off to tug him in with her. “Finally!” A quiet chuckle rumbled in the chest beneath her mouth and hands but she was too busy to care.

Geralt let her sleep in a bit later than usual the next morning, and then once she was up, packed her off to the fair district. Bemused, she found herself watching while he checked over several horses, examining teeth and hooves and temperament. Roach seemed rather displeased to be there and tossed her head and danced away when Geralt would bring certain horses near. Jaskier tried to soothe her with sugar cubes but she wasn’t having it.

Geralt finally seemed to settle on a pale gray gelding that almost danced around the pen when Geralt put him through his paces. Even Roach seemed less displeased, merely snorting once before ignoring him when Geralt brought him close. In fairly short order, Geralt had handed over a rather large amount of their coin and was saddling him up. “Jas, come here.”

“Oh gods. I thought he was supposed to be a pack horse.” Feeling a bit of dread, Jaskier left the safety of Roach’s side and sidled into the pen. Geralt threw her up onto the horse’s back, then moved around adjust things on the saddle. “You can’t be serious, Geralt,” she hissed. “I’m no rider, you _know_ that. It took me a decade to win over Roach enough for her to take sugar from me! And this guy is so _frisky_.”

“He’s young and energetic, but he’s got a bright temperament. And Roach doesn’t hate him, so they won’t fight,” Geralt said shortly. He reached up to adjust the way she sat until he was satisfied. Quieter he added, “We’re heading further south. Niflgaard has a greater presence the further south we go. Roach can’t carry us both, Jas. Not if we have to move fast for any length of time.”

Unhappy, she nodded, then reached a tentative hand forward to stroke through the gray mane. The horse threw his head up but didn’t actually seem to be objecting. She didn’t mention her other objection, which was simply that they could move so much faster on two horses than with one, which meant that they would reach Kerack and her family’s estate that much sooner, which loomed in the back of her mind like an ending. The speed was the point, and the only thing that would end were the lies – she had to trust him in that.

They weren’t able to travel terribly fast at first. Jaskier had been terrible at his riding lessens as a child, and had only rarely ridden Roach – and then only with Geralt either riding in front or at least leading the horse. Now she found herself bouncing unpleasantly as this new horse all but pranced, high spirited and energetic enough to want to really run and only grudgingly obeyed her commands to stay at Roach’s pace. Geralt gave her patient tips and corrections, but by the time they were ready to make camp, her backside and thighs were so sore he had to help her get down. She hobbled her way through setting up camp, glaring when he tried to get her to just rest – she’d had plenty of that during the first leg of the journey. This wasn’t even a real injury, just soreness, so she would pull her own damned weight!

He had, apparently, anticipated the soreness though, and once a pot of stew was heating over the fire had her stretch out so he could rub a salve into her abused muscles. That led to a whole different kind of rubbing, less therapeutic and more pleasurable, and the stew ended up a bit scorched.

By the time they had reached the Pontar river, her seat had improved and she felt much less like a graceless sack of grain flopping about and more like she was actually riding the damn horse. She named him Rascal, because it was either that or ‘Damnit Horse’ and she couldn’t deal with Geralt’s snickering every time she said it.

They crossed the river and decided to skip staying in any towns. There was a restlessness to Geralt and she knew he had to be itching to get back to his child. Not that he had much to worry about – Ciri was well protected at Kaer Morhen, with Vesemir to train her in physical combat and Yennefer to train her strange powers. Between those two, they could level the whole mountain range if they needed to. But Jaskier understood it even if Geralt himself probably couldn’t articulate it. As much as the man had always protested against getting involved and having anyone need him, he was a protector down to his core. He _cared_ about Ciri, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her safe. Right now, he was torn between two conflicting responsibilities: his child surprise and the person he loved. Jaskier had a strange power of her own to learn about and she wouldn’t be safe until she did. So they needed answers, but those answers were only taking them further from the child.

So Jaskier kept her mouth shut about her anxiety and her discomforts, and did her best to provide distractions at night. They avoided inns and the tempting comforts offered there and bathed in streams when they found them. They found only one contract for Geralt, entirely by accident, as they skirted around a village with a ghoul problem and the smell had Rascal shying and Geralt growling. “If they bite you, it’s poisonous,” he grunted as he pulled his silver sword. “Stay on Rascal – if he spooks, let him. I’ll be able to find you later. Otherwise, _stay here_.”

Jaskier nervously stayed on the horse, who was indeed restless. But Roach was a steady presence with them, and she had seen enough of these battles to not be more than slightly agitated. Her calm seemed to calm Rascal, and being able to make out Geralt fighting under the full moon helped keep Jaskier calm. Between the sword and _igni_ , it took just over a quarter of an hour for him to kill the pack. The grateful villagers whose cemetery had played home to the nest crept out and pressed what little they could into their hands. That amounted to a few coins, but a full sack of grain for the horses and a nice slab of bacon for the people, so they had little to complain about.

As they neared Kerack, Jaskier reluctantly took the lead towards her family estate. With a grimness she knew Geralt was worried about, she made them stop in the capitol. She insisted on an inn with a proper bath, and then vanished for an hour to buy herself some different clothes. The sturdy but plain clothing that she’d been wearing was replaced with something a little closer to the more stylish gear she’d worn as a man. The dress was something even Yennefer would probably not object to, and it made Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, especially when she held out a tunic and coat not unlike what he’d worn to Pavetta’s feast. “We need to get in the door,” she explained. “The staff won’t recognize me like this, so if we aren’t dressed right, we’d have to break in to get inside. Um, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for their behavior. You are not responsible.” She was as tense as he’d ever seen her, and try as she might, she couldn’t make herself relax. It took all his coaxing, all his skill as a lover, to get her to drop into an uneasy slumber. Her sleep was restless and filled with dreams that she couldn’t quite remember, but knew involved Geralt leaving her behind with her family.

Her stomach felt filled with lead as they road up to her family’s estate. They were stopped at the gate by an armed guard. Jaskier summoned every last bit of the arrogant, superior tone that had been drilled into her as a child and looked down her nose at the man. “I am here to speak with Lady Pankratz,” she said coolly. “It’s a matter of some urgency regarding Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettonhove. I assure you, she will wish to speak with us in private.”

She wasn’t sure what the guard was really seeing. On the one hand, her bearing and manner spoke of highborn, and more, of the manner of the Pankratz family itself. On the other, she was clearly a woman and very clearly not the only female offspring of the family. Not to mention the hulking witcher who radiated bad temper and weaponry beside her, for all he wore silk instead of armor at the moment.

Clearly he seemed to decide the matter was above his paygrade as he let them pass and signaled the guard at the house that visitors were approaching. They were met at the front of the manor and led around to a side entrance, one used for servants and tradesmen. Jaskier passed a coin to the young stable hand that came to tend to the horses. “We’re unlikely to remain for long. Leave their saddles on but make sure they get something to drink. Mind Roach – she bites,” she added, a little more kindly. The lad’s face was skinnier than she’d like, but it didn’t surprise her. Her family paid their staff, but only _just_ enough. The boy likely worked from sunup to sundown, and while he would get three meals a day, that wasn’t enough to let a growing young thing feel truly full.

They were led inside and to one of the smaller drawing rooms, one used for guests out of favor. Once inside, she began to pace nervously, until Geralt slid a hand around her waist and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Everything will be fine,” he promised. “They will not be allowed to hurt you, and they will not be allowed to keep you here. We will get what answers we can and we will leave.”

She nodded and let herself lean against him for a few minutes, until she heard the door open.

“Just what exactly is the meaning of this? Who do you think you are to come here unannounced and _demand_ an audience with me?” her mother’s cold, furious voice demanded.

Jaskier turned to face her. They shared similar features; blue eyes, brown hair, a long lean build. But where Jaskier liked to think that her face tended to show life and laughter and love, Chandrelle Pankratz was nothing but cold: cold eyes, frigid, false laughter, cold fury when she didn’t get her way. And now it bore a cold shock when she took in Jaskier’s features. “Julian. What have you –“ Chandrelle bit off whatever else she was planning to say. “So. The gift finally manifested in one of you. It is my curse that it chose _you_ , ungrateful child. And who is this that you have brought into my house?” Her gaze swept over Geralt, nostrils flaring ever so slightly with distaste when she noted the hand that he kept at her waist.

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier told her, finally feeling a slight bit of anger of her own steadying her. She had known they would look down on Geralt, but she had never been able to tolerate the way others treated him, like he was lesser than, and that familiar outrage helped to steady her.

“A _witcher_.” She may as well have said ‘pile of dung’. “I did not think your company could sink further, but it’s clear you live to vex me.”

“I live to please me. That it vexes you is your problem,” Jaskier said flatly. She was suddenly just – done. Done with wanting their approval of her, or at least acceptance. They had nothing for her, and she nothing for them. “I didn’t come here for a reunion. I came here for answers. About this _gift_. About being half human. I want the truth.”

She waved her hand. “Yes yes, save your moral outrage. I should have guessed you’d be the one to get it. Humans are a plague,” she said abruptly. She lifted a pendant from around her neck and set it down. Her features blurred a bit and changed. Her cheekbones were a little higher, her chin and jaw more angled and pointed. And of course, her ears went from rounded human to pointed elven. “Our clan once ruled these lands, from the sea to the Amell mountains. Now we are but a handful, forced to hide in a pitiful enclave in Brokilon forest. Humans – they breed like rabbits,” she sneered. “Too many, too quickly. We have lost too much. My child, you will be the first – the first of many, now that we know the gift can breed true. Even if with hybrids, we will take back what was rightfully ours.” She crossed the room to them and took Jaskier’s chin in her hand. The look in her eyes made Jaskier want to throw up, something like revulsion mixed with longing.

Geralt reached out and shoved her hand away. “She isn’t here to help you with whatever your foolish plan is. We’re here for answers. Her form can be altered, yes. But right now, she can’t control it. How does it work? Is it a spell?”

“I wouldn’t know. I can recognize my own child in another form, but the gift skipped me. It was why I was chosen,” she added resentfully. “It happens sometimes, that the gift won’t manifest, but we know it can still be passed down. But the secret to making the shift is kept close to those who wield it. They won’t share it with you, my darling child,” she spat. “Not if you refuse to help us. That’s what happens when you turn your back on family.”

“We may share blood,” Jaskier told her. “But we are not family. I know what family feels like now so I can speak to that with a great deal of authority.”

“You have always been such a disappointment. Flighty and airheaded. I suppose it is good that you were the youngest. Had you been first born, I would have given up on having children due to the crushing disappointment.”

Geralt growled as a tiny piece of Jaskier flinched, deep inside. Geralt stepped between them. “I suppose, as you have no answers for us, then you are of no use. You may tell anyone who asks that your son Julian is dead – you will never see your youngest child again.”

“Oh, if only that were true. Better dead than a traitor that sullies herself by laying with a mutant!”

Jaskier didn’t even realize what she was doing until her hand was stinging with the force of her slap. “ _Don’t you talk about him like that!”_ She was breathing heavy, as though she’d just run a race. “You were a miserable, cold bitch as a mother, an absolute failure. Geralt is worth a thousand, a million times, what you are to this world. It is thanks entirely to him that I know what true nobility looks like. I am beyond lucky that he ever gave me the time of day. Go to hell – that’s all you deserve,” Jaskier spat.

“Get out of this house,” Chandrelle hissed, voice low and vicious. “Get out, and don’t you ever return. You are dead to me.”

“Finally, a gift from you that has actual value!” She turned to stalk towards the door. She reached it only to realize that Geralt wasn’t with her. She turned to see him glaring down at Chandrelle, eyes blazing.

“You should tell your other children of their true heritage,” he said coldly. “They’ve married and will have children. The more children they have, the higher the chances of birth defects. They deserve to know their bloodline.”

“Get out of my house. Before I call the guards and tell them that _you_ are responsible for my son’s death.”

“Do that, and I’ll tell everyone from here to the capitol what you really are,” Jaskier promised.

“Just get out!”

Geralt turned on his heel and followed Jaskier out of the house. She mounted up and for once, didn’t attempt to restrain Rascal’s energy. Once they were well out of sight of the estate, Geralt reached out and grabbed the reins, bringing them both to a stop. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine! I’m perfectly fine,” she said bitterly. “I’m so completely fine with being part of some kind of breeding program meant to give elves a bigger presence on the continent. I’m completely fine with my own mother being utterly disgusted by my mixed heritage. And I am fine that we spent weeks traveling all the way here so that she could spit in our faces and give us nothing!”

“Oh good. I thought you’d be upset,” he said blandly.

“Upset?! Why would I be upset? Just because I’m a failure to her and she insulted you, like being your lover was worse than laying with farm animals? What is there to be upset about!”

Geralt snorted and reached out to lift her right out of the saddle. Rascal danced away and then, freed of the pressure on his reins, moved to start nibbling at some tasty new grass that was beginning to peek through. He quieted her distress with a long kiss, until she relaxed and slumped in his arms. “You know, I believe it was you, just two nights ago, that compared my cock to an oxen’s,” he observed. “Didn’t seem to mind the farm animal comparison then.”

Jaskier gaped at him and then thumped him on the chest. “That was completely different!” He grinned down into her face, the ass. “Gods, Geralt, what are we going to do now? How am I supposed to learn to control this?” She rubbed her face tiredly. “We wasted weeks coming here when we could have been back in Kaer Morhen by now.”

“Kaer Morhen will wait. I had hoped your – I had hoped Chandrelle would be of more use rather than having to venture into Brokilon forest, but if that’s where her kin are, then that’s where answers are. If they’re hostile, then we’ll simply have to deal with it. One way or another, we _will_ find you answers.” He touched their foreheads together, just giving her time to get herself together. Finally, after several long minutes of him just holding her, unwavering, she sighed and nodded.

“Brokilon forest, then.”


	12. Chapter 12

It took only a couple days to ride to the forest from the Pankratz family estate. Not nearly enough time for Jaskier to find her calm again, but there wasn’t much Geralt could do about that. He would have been willing to wait. They had coin enough to stay at an inn for a few days, at least, since they had saved so much by avoiding inns on their way to Kerack. Even with the horse and expense clothes, they had enough left over. Jaskier had truly gouged that alderman back in Breyla, and Geralt didn’t feel the slightest guilt in spending the coin. Anything if it would get rid of the sour edge of anxiety that haunted her normally sweet scent. She’d worn the scent from the moment they’d crossed over the border into Kerack and it had him on edge.

The confrontation with her mother had been difficult for him, although he was sure it was nothing to how difficult it had been for the bard. Geralt doubted most people knew just quite how much their scent changed with their emotions. After a time moving through the world, all witchers learned to identify them, read a room based on smell before even sight. And from the moment that woman had expressed her disappointment in her, Jaskier’s scent had worn an edge of shame, as though she really had something to be sorry for in her mother’s eyes. The spicy scent of anger had almost obliterated it when Chandrelle had insulted him, but it kept coming back periodically. Geralt really wanted to ride back and run her through, but he doubted anyone but him would feel better for it.

Her lovemaking at night had taken on a desperate edge as well, as though she needed to reassure herself that he still wanted her. He both did and didn’t understand that. He had seen whole families shunned for the actions of one member. It was common for humans to paint with a broad brush rather than a fine one, so fearing what another would think because of one’s kin was a reasonable fear. And Jaskier had been apologizing for her family even before they had set out for Kerack, so it was clearly something she worried about. But he couldn’t understand why she didn’t seem to believe that his opinion on the family that birthed her didn’t reflect at all on her. She had known him for too long. Surely she had to know that he cared little for family lines and reputations? That he had no care for what people said about himself so long as he could do his job?

But perhaps she still wasn’t as assured of his feelings as he’d hoped. Their separation had been long, and entirely his own doing, and the wound he gave her very deep. He had, essentially, blamed her for things that were not of her doing once already. He also still had difficulty with saying certain things. The apology that he had practiced for so long came easily to his tongue, but he had never practiced saying how he felt beyond that. He hadn’t thought there would be a need, since he had never dreamt that Jaskier would want anything beyond the friendship they’d already had. In hindsight, the faint edge of arousal that had always spiced Jaskier’s scent should have told him, but with the way the bard had tumbled almost anyone who gave him a wink and a nod had thrown him off. He’d thought he was just – horny.

“This forest is creepy, Geralt,” Jaskier announced, pulling him from his thoughts. He focused in on her, noting the frown that carved a wrinkle between her eyebrows and the tense grip on her horse’s reins.

Geralt inhaled deeply and nodded. “We are surrounded by magic,” he observed. “I suspect a glamour, possibly something to discourage travelers.”

She shifted restlessly and Rascal echoed her movements, sidling closer to Roach. It wasn’t ideal; if they were attacked, her being that close would hinder his ability to draw his sword. But the smell of her anxiety diminished slightly when she was next to him, so he would make the tradeoff.

“Should we….” She trailed off.

“Should we what?” he prompted.

“I mean, we’re looking for the elves that live here. Seems only polite that we announce ourselves?” Her voice trailed off, clearly unsure of herself.

Geralt grunted, thinking that over as he scanned the trees around them. His medallion was giving off a constant vibration and had been since they’d neared the forest. It wasn’t growing stronger as they traveled deeper in, suggesting that the same level of magic covered the whole area. And really, if the elves that lived here were that insular, they already _knew_ the pair of them were there and were simply waiting to see what they did, whether they would break under the heavy handed feeling of doom or whether they would do something aggressive. It couldn’t hurt. He nodded at her, gesturing towards the trees.

Jaskier looked around again and then took a deep breath. “Uh, hello? We can tell someone is watching. We only wish to talk to you. Um, I think – I guess I’m technically related to you? At least some of you? I’m the youngest child of Chandrelle Pankratz.” She fell silent and they listened, but even Geralt didn’t hear anything. “Apparently I’m a shapeshifter?” she tried.

Still nothing and Geralt could only shrug when she looked at him. They would find the elves, even if he had to start burning down the forest to get a response. For the moment they simply kept moving deeper into the forest. Geralt quickly had to take over guiding them. The forest seemed to shift around them, and if not for his unerring sense of direction, they would have gotten completely turned around and ended up back where they had entered. The shifting magics gave Jaskier a headache and with a bit of swearing, pulled out her lute and focused completely on her hands rather than their surroundings. Normally Geralt would have chided her for it but in this instance he couldn’t blame her. Even the horses seemed a touch disoriented.

When they reached what he judged to be the middle of the northern arm, he pulled them to a halt. If they moved southwest, they would eventually come to where the Dryads lived. Due west would bring them to Craag An. If the elves lived in this part of Brokilon, they had to be in the middle of their territory. He glared around them. “We have already announced our business here,” he called out. “We require answers and will leave peacefully once we have them. Continue to ignore us and I will burn the forest down around your pointed ears.” He held up one hand and summoned _igni_ to his fingertips, holding the flame there as illustration.

“You are rude, for ones who come begging,” a sour voice answered. The forest wavered and then solidified, showing them surrounded by elven warriors. Swords and bows were at the ready and had Jaskier urging Rascal closer.

Geralt focused on the speaker, a tall man with hair a similar shade to Jaskier’s and blue eyes several shades lighter. He gave the man an unimpressed look. “We announced ourselves and what we wished some time ago. You’ve been playing games trying to get rid of us.”

“You take hints so well.”

“Um, hi? Do you – do you know Chandrelle? She’s my mother,” Jaskier tried, drawing more attention to her than Geralt would wish.

“She is my sister,” the man said grudgingly.

“Then I am technically your nephew. Well, niece at the moment. I’ve been informed by a mage that I have inherited the ability to shapeshift. We’d uh, we’d like to know more about that. Please. Thank you.”

The man stepped closer, eyes narrowed on Jaskier’s face. When he reached out to touch her, Geralt found himself holding a sword to his throat. “Careful, elf,” he warned. “This one is under my protection.”

The elf gave him a look of distaste. “So I see. Calm yourself, witcher. If this one is kin as she claims, no harm will befall her here.” Geralt lowered the sword but didn’t sheath it. The elf picked up Jaskier’s hand and examined it, then leaned up to examine her face. He touched one finger to her brow and then his eyebrows went up. “Interesting. We did not think the ability would pass down into a hybrid. It is certainly there, however. I am Aelrindel. What is your name?”

“I go by Arell.”

Aelrindel snorted, clearly catching the careful phrasing there. “Arell then. What do you require of us?”

“Instruction. I’ve been told I have this ability, but I have no idea how to control it. As it is, a mage of my acquaintance altered my shape for me but could not offer any insite on how I could go about doing so on my own. I would rather my shape not be at the mercy of every grumpy mage I cross paths with.”

“You allowed another to control your form?” Aelrindel made it sound as though Jaskier had invited someone to pee on her. “Did your mother not tell you of our customs?”

“No,” Jaskier said flatly. “I didn’t even know I was half elf until recently, when I found out about the shapeshifting. A witch by the name of Dahlia is the one who told me about both. My…mother was not forthcoming.”

“I see.” Aelrindel made a gesture to the surrounding elves. As one, they lowered their weapons and melted back into the trees, although Geralt could still hear their heartbeats. “Chandrelle was always bitter that she didn’t inherit the ability. Not all of us do. She has been gone from us for some time.”

Geralt snorted. “You’re not missing much. Tell me, is her plan to take back the territory from the human by breeding with them hers, or one the whole clan came up with?”

Aelrindel sneered. “Hers entirely, witcher. We do not approve of mixing the bloodlines, not even with other elves. We need only wait; humans seem bent on self-destruction, constantly finding reasons to go to war with each other. Eventually, a war large enough to decimate the human population will happen, and we can simply take back what was always ours. Chandrelle was impatient and left to find another way.”

“Then – will you teach me how to control it?” Jaskier asked.

“There is little to be taught. The ability is ingrained. You need only find the spark of it within your soul and command it. Our young are taught meditation from their earliest years so that they might find and nurture that spark. Chandrelle did not have it, but she learned the meditation all the same. Did she not teach you?”

“No. My education was left to my nanny and tutors. She spent very little time with me.” 

“A pity, I suppose. There is little to be done about it now. You shall have to figure it out for yourself.”

Geralt glared at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re lying, elf,” he said bluntly.

The elf lifted his chin. “So what if I am? I owe neither of you anything. The girl’s relationship to my wayward sister means nothing to me. There is no clan for her here. There is _nothing_ for you here,” the elf added, staring directly at Jaskier. “Whatever Chandrelle foolishly came to think, we will accept no – _halfbreeds_. It is the height of generosity that we haven’t yet killed you.”

Snarling wordlessly, Geralt swung off Roach and had the bastard pinned up against a tree with a knife at his throat in moments. The sour stink of fear flooded his nostrils. “The only one in danger of losing their life here is _you_ , elf,” he promised. “You failed to keep control of one of your own. It is your responsibility to teach Arell what you can of controlling her ability.” He traced the knife down the long column of throat, pleased at the thundering heartbeat that went with the fear smell. “Unless you’d care for the entire continent of humans to know of your existence here,” he added smoothly. “We know the depths they sink to. Imagine what they would do with elves that can shift to look like anything at all. Imagine the menageries your people would end up in. The brothels,” he added.

Aelrindel looked over his shoulder at Jaskier. “You would allow him to do this to your kin?”

Well no, Jaskier wouldn’t, actually. Geralt knew that quite well. But his bard was clever and could be very ruthless when the occasion called for it. He didn’t even have to look to know the bland look she would be wearing or see the careless shrug she offered. “What kin? Just moments ago you made a point of saying how you owe me nothing. Why would you think I owe you anything? All I asked is some idea of how to control an ability I was stuck with by virtue of a birth I didn’t ask for, so that I didn’t have to be at the mercy of mad mages. Frankly, it would very much be in your best interests to help me. For one thing, Geralt really would like to kill you right now. He finds insults to me rather more troublesome than insults to himself – go figure! For another, the next mage who figures out what I can do could very well be incredibly curious about it. Shapeshifting isn’t exactly a common skill. If I can’t control it, then it’s bound to get out sooner or later when others _can_. I don’t lead a safe life and I refuse to go into hiding to protect the likes of you. Unless you’d like every crazy son of a bitch from the Brotherhood knocking on your door wanting to dissect you and take it for their own?” The stink of fear spiked at that and the elf’s face did something complicated. “Oh, what, don’t tell me you hadn’t considered that. The Brotherhood has been known to dissect _humans_ just for being born at the wrong time. Do you think they would care a whit about dissecting you? It is in everyone’s best interests that I know what I’m doing with this so I don’t get caught by such a one. One specimen would never be enough.”

While the fear in Aelrindel was certainly high enough that the man was surely about to break, the fear the words engendered in those surrounding them prompted a different response. Geralt whirled and cut the arrow out of the air just in time to keep it from piercing Jaskier’s chest. They had traveled together long enough for there to be a system in place for a situation like this. Jaskier threw herself to the ground between both horses to make herself a smaller target. Roach, at least, would definitely kick and bite at anyone that came too close, and Rascal seemed agitated enough to do so as well.

Geralt whirled back to the elf in hand and dealt him a solid blow upside the head. He threw the dazed elf down by Jaskier and dove into the trees. The elves around them had the advantage of knowing the terrain, as well as their illusion magic that made said terrain twist and swim in front of his eyes. Geralt, however, was _raging_. He needed no potion to boost his stamina, and he didn’t need his eyes to track down their attackers. He heard several sets of footsteps running away, but a great many thundering heartbeats remained. He tracked them each with a somewhat gleeful abandon, opening bellies and breaking bones. He shrugged off the arrow to the shoulder and near ripped off the offending arm that had wielded the bow. Only when none of the groaning bodies made further aggressive moves did he turn his full attention back to Jaskier. He had kept an ear out, forever tuned into her heartbeat, and though it had sped up when the arrow had flown at her, it had stayed steady since then.

The magics making the scenery swirl dropped and he could see her clearly, still between Roach and Rascal. She had found a length of rope and tied Aelrindel’s arms behind his back and his ankles to his bound arms, and was sitting perched on his bound limbs with a dagger to his neck. He couldn’t help the pleased grin that crossed his face and she beamed at him.

“We’ll take him with us,” he decided. “I want out of these fucking trees before the ones that ran bring reinforcements.” She hopped up and grabbed Rascal’s reins, seeming very ready to leave. “Can you hold him on?” he asked, gesturing at the bound elf.

She looked doubtful. “I mean – maybe? Shapeshifter, Geralt. I’m not even sure he’ll stay tied up, if he can alter his shape at will.”

Geralt contemplated the man for a moment and nodded. With a gesture, he cast _axii_ , and the elf went somehow even more limp. “That should keep him out for a time. Let’s go.” Jaskier swung up onto Rascal and leaned back enough to allow him to deposit the unconscious elf in her lap. If he were tied differently, Geralt would be pleased to use him as a shield at her back, but Jaskier wasn’t a skilled enough rider to balance him like that for any length of time in his current position. “Let’s go.” He swung up on Roach and set her to a fast pace back the way they had come.

He kept them moving much faster going than they had coming. Hopefully tending to the numerous serious wounds he’d left behind would delay any pursuit, but he wasn’t willing to bet their lives on it. Jaskier, thankfully, stayed quiet and let him lead them out of the woods.

They left the woods and crossed the river into Temeria. He wanted as much distance between them and the woods – and Chandrelle and any human soldiers she could summon – as possible. He kept them moving into the night until he judged Jaskier’s more human stamina to be flagging, before finally taking shelter in an as yet empty grain silo on the outskirts of a farming village. They were well enough away from the nearest humans that any noises Aelrindel made wouldn’t be noticed. Or if they were, the night was dark enough to ward off any human investigators at least until morning’s light.

Jaskier insisted on helping to carry the still unconscious elf inside, then pushed him to sit as well. In spite of her tiredness, she took care of unsaddling both horses and giving them a quick but thorough rubdown and hobbling them nearby where they could graze and rest. Then she turned on him with a very determined look on her face and the medical pouch in her hands. He didn’t even try to protest, just lit the candle stub for her and turned his back so she could work on the arrow that still throbbed painfully in his shoulder. She cut the end off so that only an inch or so stuck out of his skin and helped him remove armor and shirt. This wouldn’t be the first wound of his that she’d helped patch up, not even the first arrow wound, so he didn’t understand why her scent began to cloud over with apprehension and something like grief.

He stifled his grunt, not wanting to add to whatever was causing her distress, when she pulled the arrow out. Her hands were steady, regardless of her feelings, as she cleaned the wound with the antiseptic that he mostly kept on hand for _her_ , since he didn’t really get infections, and then began to stitch the wound closed. She snipped the thread and wrapped bandage around to cover the wound, tying of the ends with a neat little knot. Then her arms wrapped around him from behind and her head came to rest in the middle of his back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?” he asked, genuinely mystified. He could not have asked for a better partner in the day’s efforts. She had kept her head, followed his lead, everything he could have asked of her. It was a far cry from the flighty bard she had been when they met, where his babble would have exacerbated everything. But Jaskier had learned better long ago, and aside from a tendency to _still_ investigate creatures that at least presented themselves as cute, rarely ever made a situation worse.

“All of this… _shit_. You don’t need this, on top of everything else. I didn’t mean to bring more trouble down on your head.”

Ah, fuck. He’d been an absolute fool to think that her forgiveness could mean that the mountain would no longer cast its shadow over them. He reached back and wound an arm around her to haul her in front of him, where he could tilt her head up and make her meet his gaze. “Jas, this isn’t your fault,” he said firmly. “I’m the one that insisted we find answers, remember? You were willing to leave it. It was my insistence on finding answers and _their_ insistence on withholding them that brought us here.”

“It isn’t that simple. You know it’s not. If I had just stayed out of that crazy woman’s damned garden, then –“

“Then we’d both still be alone and miserable. I’d still be combing the continent, hoping to find you so I could grovel and get you back. This isn’t your fault. You don’t get to take blame that isn’t yours.” He drew her fingers to a small scar low on his ribs. “ _This one_ was your fault. Remember? You just had to taunt those drunkards when you won at dice. The rest of this? Not yours. I won’t have you taking blame that isn’t yours, fluff. Leave some for the rest of us.”

She laughed a little, a sad, wet sort of noise. “I just – I worry. Your luck seems to go south when we’re together, and you get hurt or something.”

He stopped her mouth with a kiss. “I get hurt because that’s my job. Most of my scars are from before I met you. You make it worthwhile.”

“Very touching,” Aelrindel drawled. Axii had worn off, then. Geralt set Jaskier off to the side so he could face the elf. “My people are hardly going to just let it go. They will follow.”

Geralt shrugged. “So? There’s enough anti-nonhuman sentiment in the world that it would take nothing for me to gather allies. All I need to tell them is that you were holding a young human woman captive and they would tear your people apart and burn the forest to finish whatever’s left.” He walked closer to squat in front of the man. “I’d feel a little badly about it. It would cause a rise in anti-elf sentiment across the continent, and your cousins from other clans would suffer for it. But for my bard?” He shrugged.

“Your kind are supposed to be without feeling. I had thought she was paying you, but this….”

“A common misconception. It serves its purpose. Now, we want our answers. Provide them, and I’ll let you go. Withhold them, and I kill you and grab another one of your clan, and another, and another, until someone finally gives me the answers I want.”

“And how many of my clan have you killed already?” Aelrindel spat. “They will come, and in numbers great enough to avenge my fallen clansmen.”

“I didn’t kill any of them – yet. It was of more use to leave them alive.”

“And if I tell you the mechanism, you’ll just release me.”

“No. I’ll leave you tied here to either release yourself or await your kin to do it for you.”

They stared at each other in the flickering candlelight. It would be convenient if the man gave in, but it was certainly an option to kill him and wait for others to come. Eventually, one of them would give over the information that he needed. Jaskier _would not_ be left vulnerable to the whims of every half baked mage that decided to play with her.

“The secret was never supposed to leave our clan,” Aelrindel gritted out.

“Then you should have kept control of your clan members. This is on your people. Arell will not suffer because of your failings,” he shot back. “Make no mistake, _I will_ keep capturing and killing your people until I get the answers we need. And now we will be on ground of my choosing. Last chance; tell us what we need, or die knowing you’re simply the first of your clan to fall.”

“Very well. There is a spell, for lack of a better term. Yet the gift does not require magical ability. The two are not hand in glove,” Aelrindel explained grudgingly. He wriggled until he could see Jaskier over Geralt’s shoulder. “The meditation is _important,_ girl. If you do not have a very clear picture in your mind of what you wish your form to be, it can go very, very wrong. Our young practice with elders that can correct things in time if the spell goes awry. Learn to focus your mind, close out distractions, or you could kill yourself with this. A body does not fare well long with no heart. Listen closely now,” he said. Slowly, he enunciated a string of Elder speech. Geralt mentally translated it: my will is my form, my form obeys my will. “Make no mistake, you are very likely to kill yourself. We _will_ die before offering further instruction. So kill me or don’t. I have nothing further to tell you on the subject. It is a matter of focus and will.”

“Hm.” Geralt rose and turned to Jaskier, drawing her further away to provide at least the illusion of privacy. “He doesn’t smell like he’s lying.”

Jaskier nodded, chewing her lip. “Okay. I don’t think there’s much to gain from staying here – Geralt!” Her eyes widened at something over his shoulder and he turned, already blasting aard where she had been looking. Aelrindel had waited for their distraction to change shape. His clothing and the leather bindings lay in tatters, scattered away from what was now a very very large bear. Aard sent the bear flying into the wall and bought him enough time to scoop up his sword.

He glared at the bear as it shook its head and faced him again. “That was very stupid. Now you die, and die knowing that I will know all who come after you no matter their shape because I can _smell_ exactly what you are,” he snarled. He and the bear circled. Aelrindel was clumsy, clearly still suffering from his head wound and having been tied in the same position for hours. But he still had the vicious claws and teeth of a bear, as well as the strength. Though Jaskier hovered near the door, she didn’t leave, which meant Geralt had to keep himself between the bear and her, and the bear knew it. The end was foregone, however, the moment Aelrindel tried to kill them from behind. He darted to the side and behind more quickly than the bear could compensate for and sliced through his hamstring. The bear bellowed in pain and turned on him clumsily, now down one leg. Geralt danced to the side again, and again his sword cut deep, severing a tendon in the bear’s shoulder.

Now crippled, the bear huddled on the floor, snarling at him as it attempted to fend him off with his one remaining arm. Geralt made one more cut, opening his belly from side to side, not _quite_ deep enough to spill entrails, but very close to it. In a moment, the bear blurred and Aelrindel glared desperately up at him.

Jaskier darted forward before he could deliver the final blow. “Do you have to?” she asked, peering up at him. In the barely there light of the candle, her eyes were dark and glistening, little of the bright, happy blue that was their norm visible. “I know – it’s not great. To have them following us. But if you kill him, won’t that just make the rest more determined?”

“He’s already shown they’re the kind to kill from behind. His death makes no difference. They will come anyway.”

Jaskier looked down at him. “You could stop them. Couldn’t you. You’re king. That’s why Chandrelle was always so, so arrogant. Not just of noble birth, she’s of _royal_ birth.”

“I am king,” Aelrindel gritted out. “In all our line, we have never had a royal bastard, never mind a halfbreed,” he spat.

“Not a bastard,” Jaskier said mildly. “My parents were married. And I renounce any claim to the throne. We have all that we wanted. I will never darken your part of the forest again. Your word, Aelrindel, as king, that neither you nor any of the clan will follow us or attempt to hinder or cause us harm, either by your hand or the hand of another. Give us that, and we’ll leave you here for your people to find. If you don’t,” she took a deep breath, “I swear to you, not only will you die, but I will spread the tale of your people and their strange ability far and wide. I will make sure every sadistic mage hears of it, every elf-hating human, and they will come for your people. They will burn the forest and slaughter every living thing inside of it, just in case it’s one of your people. I am a bard of quite a bit of fame. I have the ear of human kings,” she promised.

“I swear,” he started.

She shook her head. “You convince him,” she said, pointing at Geralt. “Make **him** believe you, or I won’t say a word in your defence.”

Aelrindel managed to glare even harder but switched his gaze back to Geralt. He swore, word for word in Elder, the oath Jaskier had demanded of him. Both he and the elf _felt_ it as the vow settled as something far more than a meaningless promise. Geralt nodded slowly. “You have your life. Let’s go,” he told her. Moving swiftly, they gathered up their things. His shoulder throbbed a bit where the stitches had pulled a little, but it was nothing to be bothered with right then. More important was getting away and putting enough distance between them and the elven king that his people would find him first before them. If they were found first, he wasn’t sure what would happen. The elves were bound by their king’s oath but didn’t know it yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tempt fate by giving it a chance for mistakes.

The horses weren’t thrilled to be saddled again, but that was just too damned bad. Geralt was more concerned about Jaskier’s fatigue and anxiety, but it wasn’t the time or place to worry about it. He kept Roach close to Rascal and his ear tuned to Jaskier as they rode out, leaving the injured elf behind to wait for his people. He didn’t let them stop until they were hours away, with dawn well advanced in the sky. Jaskier was holding on grimly, a set to her jaw that told him she would keep going until she collapsed rather than ask for a break. But it was the horses’ fatigue that really tipped the scales. He could carry Jaskier if he had to, but the horses were tired, and he could tell that Roach was on the verge of bucking him off. He turned them a little more westward to where the smell of hearth fires drifted on the breeze. In fairly short order, at least by his standards, they came to a small town, barely big enough to boast an inn. But they _did_ have one, and one with a reasonably clean stable as well. He paid a generous portion of their remaining coin to have the horses very well fed and rubbed down before he all but carried Jaskier into the inn.

The sleepy innkeeper just passed over a key without comment on the unusual hour and waved them off, seeming as though he would be heading back to his bed. The room they’d been given was small but clean, with the linen’s having been washed in between the previous customers and themselves. Geralt was comfortable enough with their considerable lead to strip his armor and boots back off, then strip Jaskier and bundle her into bed. She was asleep before he’d gotten them covered with the blanket.

He allowed himself to fall into a light doze. He was sure enough of the oath the elven king had given to let them rest, but there was always a chance that at least some of his people would continue to pursue them, possibly without knowing of the bargain struck. If that was the case, it was better to have at least half an ear out. He also wanted to make sure he woke when Jaskier did. They had been interrupted before they could really finish their conversation, and he had a feeling that Jaskier would need more words from him to believe he didn’t blame her for the turn their business had taken.


	13. Chapter 13

They were well into the afternoon before Jaskier’s shifting against him woke him. He opened his eyes and immediately focused on her. Her nose wrinkled and she rubbed it against his chest, easing the tickle there. Her hand, previously lax against his belly, flexed then moved, sliding until she found warm flesh rather than cloth. She was still again, but Geralt knew from experience that she was definitely on the upswing towards consciousness. After a few minutes of stillness, her fingers started to twitch again and before long they slid upwards until she was combing through his chest hair. She hummed and shifted again, throwing a leg over both of his thighs.

No longer able to resist, Geralt lightly traced the shell of her visible ear with a sword callused fingertip. Her lips parted as her sleep-slow breathing began to speed up a little. Her hips flexed, pressing her groin into his thigh. He heard her heartbeat start to speed up and smelled the first signs of arousal beginning to quicken her blood, cutting through the less pleasing smells left over from the day and long night before. He pushed the blanket down and slid his free hand under her shirt, using long, slow strokes along her side, over the dip of her waist, up her belly to graze the edge of one full breast, where it was pressed up against him. Jaskier let out a breathy moan, eyes fluttering open finally. She looked up at him, pupils wide, eyes a little dazed. A slow smile spread over her face. “Hmm, not just a dream, then,” she murmured, voice low and rough with both sleep and desire.

“Do you dream about this often?”

“Only every night.” She got a hand under herself and pushed up, mouth seeking his.

Geralt met her halfway, sliding his tongue between welcoming lips. They had been traveling hard for some weeks now, and while sex had been almost nightly, morning sex was far less so. Most of their mornings had been spent rising and setting out again with the sun, in order to maximize their travel time. Here and now, there was none of the frantic, desperate edge it had held of late. She opened to him eagerly, bold, confident hands roaming under his shirt, grazing his nipples with a playful tease.

His own eagerness growing, he easily pulled her all the way on top of him, hands sliding immediately under her trousers to cup her ass, kneading and squeezing, letting his fingers slid into the crack and down, until he was able to just brush her damp opening. She shuddered, sucking on his tongue encouragingly as she pushed her hips back into the touch. He pulled his mouth free with a brief, parting nip to her lower lip. “Ride me,” he said. He tried to make it a request, but his voice was too rough at present so that it came out a demand.

She shivered and nodded. She sat up and pulled her shirt off while Geralt did the same. Then she knelt up to struggle out of her trouser a little awkwardly. It would have gone better if she’d been willing to get off his lap, but even a brief separation was apparently more than she wanted, and instead she shifted side to side until she was able to pull her legs free of the confining clothing. They both reached for the buttons straining over his erection to pull them open and free his cock. The head was already red and leaking, and she took a moment to palm it, thumb swiping over the tip. She brought her thumb to her mouth to suck the fluid off, gaze locking onto his as she did. “Gods I love the taste of you,” she sighed. “I could spend hours sucking your cock, until I couldn’t talk. We’re doing that one of these nights,” she promised as she rose up over him. He held his cock still for her until she sank down on it, then moved his grip to her hips. “We’ll find someplace nice and secluded,” she continued breathlessly as she began to move. “Safe from prying eyes and monsters. And I’m going to spend hours between your thighs, Geralt, until you can’t take it anymore and you have to pry me off.”

His hips jerked, as much from the feel of her tight and wet and perfect around him as from the filthy promise of her words. She let out a guttural moan, so he did it again. She braced her hands on his chest and started to move faster, eyes locked onto his. There was nothing of anxiety or worry in her gaze right now, just lust and the affection he had ignored for too many years. He hoped she could read the same in his, hoped that at least like this, he could make his feelings clear. He had to touch more of her. They were as connected as they could be and it wasn’t enough. He slid his hands up her and sat up until they were pressed together. Her arms went around his neck to hold on, still riding him, grinding their hips together. She took his mouth again, swallowing the moans that felt almost punched out of him and feeding her own right back into him. Her body seized in his, pulsing around his cock as she peaked.

He flipped them over and took over, slamming into her, fucking her through her orgasm. She hitched her legs higher, opening herself further so that he could get in as deep as physically possible. He buried his face in her neck, licking and sucking, taking the taste of her into him and leaving his own taste behind. Her blunt nails scored his back and her fingers clenched down on his ass. With her mouth free, a stream of filthy words mixed with loving, driving him on, stoking his desire to mark her, to imprint himself so deeply into her flesh that no one would ever mistake her for anything other than _his_. His mouth found her collarbone, and as her fingers slid down to graze over his hole, he bit. She jerked, crying out in unmistakable pleasure, and sent him over the edge with her.

~

Jaskier went limp beneath the weight of satisfied witcher pinning her to the bed. She combed through his tangled hair with her fingers, occasionally pressing sucking kisses to his neck or his shoulder. She was all but purring, she was so contented. “Easily the best way to wake up,” she murmured.

“Hmm.” Geralt stirred himself enough to plant a kiss on her collarbone, where she was sure an impressive bruise would form. “We’ve coin enough for another night.”

“Good. I’m rather fond of Rascal, but my backside could use a break from the saddle.” She stretched her legs out then curled them back around his thighs, just in case he got some silly idea that she wanted him to move. She could still breathe; there was no hurry on that score. “I wasn’t paying much attention when we got here. How big is the place? Is everyone tense because of the war or did they seem pretty normal? I should be able to get us a bit more coin. With you hulking in the corner, I can play some of the livelier songs without anyone thinking it’s an invitation.” She felt more than heard the growl in his chest at that and grinned. “Easy, witcher-mine. Get too scary and they won’t cough up the coins.”

He propped himself on his forearms above her and frowned down at her. “They shouldn’t treat you like that.”

“No, they shouldn’t, but it happens. Far less as a man, but I’m dealing with what I’ve got to work with right now.”

He frowned harder. “You’ll keep your dagger strapped on you,” he ordered.

“I will, if it will make you feel better. But you weren’t planning to go anywhere…were you?” She’d been really tired when they arrived and hadn’t noticed much of anything, but if he’d seen a contract….”

“Not without you. But I’m not always glued to your side.”

“That’s alright then. Between you making scary face in the background and the marks on my neck, I doubt I’m in much danger.” She saw his eyes flick down to her neck and watched as what might have been a flash of guilt warring with smugness wrestle for dominance in his eyes. She lifted her chin and preened a bit. “I do like marks. It would just be nice if the ones I left on _you_ lasted for more than an hour.”

“Can’t really help that, unless you’d want to carve them in with a knife.”

She honestly couldn’t tell if that was a serious offer but shook her head anyway. “Not even a little funny, witcher-mine. You get hurt enough.” Remembering, she reached up and felt the bandages with light fingers. “You didn’t pull any of the stitches, did you?”

“I don’t think so. You can check in the bath,” he offered.

“Ooh, a bath. Have we enough coins to have one now?”

“I’ll order one.” He pushed himself up and finally slipped out of her. Regretfully, she let her legs fall closed to watch him fix his pants and pull on his shirt. He tossed the blanket over her before he left, so she just snuggled in to wait.

The downside to that was that her thoughts, no longer distracted by him being on her, in her, started to circle back to the events from the day and night before. It stung, although it shouldn’t, that the people that should have been her kin had so soundly rejected her. But even more than that not unfamiliar sting, she was worried. She didn’t know if leaving her uncle alive would come back to bite them in the future. With her luck, it probably would. Geralt had already felt compelled to cross a decent chunk of the continent to find answers to her latest issues. With all that he had to worry about with the princess, when would her problems be too much? Because it had to get to be too much eventually. She was always too much for people eventually and had proven to be too much for _Geralt_ once already. She was dead to her mother, her father had never even pretended interest in her once it was clear she would be useless for political gain. And for most other people, she was fun in short bursts but they always seemed to need a break before too awfully long. Her stint at the inn with Mara had been one of the longest that she’d ever managed, mostly because she was playing a role and acting like someone other than herself. It had been survivable, but she’d been miserable, and had managed largely because she’d had a private room where she could relax and be herself for a few hours. If she tried to do that with Geralt, she didn’t think it would go very well. They had too many years together, and the new depths of their intimacy made it a fool’s errand from the beginning. He would pickup on any change in behavior right away, and she would forget herself too often for it to really work even if he somehow didn’t.

Geralt returned then, thankfully interrupting her depressing and useless train of thought. He frowned at her though, which made her look around in bewilderment. “What? I didn’t even leave the bed! What happened?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.” He walked over to sit beside her and trailed a hand down her face to settle on her neck, warm and reassuring. “You’re upset about something.”

Jaskier gave him a blank look. “How can you tell?”

He shrugged. “I can smell it. Emotions have smells. I’m very familiar with your scent.”

“I knew you could smell lies and blood and other fluids, but. Really?” Jaskier thought about that. “Should I bathe more? I feel like I should bathe more.”

“I like your smell. Even weeks out from your last bath. That’s not the point, Jas.”

Jaskier sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Geralt, this whole venture – I hate it!” she burst out, surprising even herself with the vehemence of it. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. _I_ follow _you_ on adventures. It’s never about me. Remember the two times that it was before? Just asking for a bit of bodyguarding turned into something ballad worthy! And then the djinn. I wasn’t even asking for help with anything, all I really wanted to do was annoy you enough to let off some steam, and it _still_ turned into a giant ordeal. This was just supposed to be an information gathering thing, and now we’ve got an entire clan of elves that hate us and want us dead! I’m sick to death of being your bad luck charm.”

Geralt’s face twisted. “Jas….”

“I _know_. I know you’re going to say it’s not true. I know you didn’t mean what you said on the mountain. And – and I know I’m not responsible for your actions – I didn’t make you invoke the Law of Surprise, I didn’t make you make the wish that bound you to Yennefer. But things don’t turn out the way you want them to when I’m around and it’s giving me something of a complex! Okay? At some point,” she finished, “juggling what you’re meant to do with Ciri with the trouble I bring is bound to get to be too much.”

“No, it won’t. It will never be too much. **You** will never be too much.” Geralt pulled her up into his arms to hold her tightly. “Before you, my life was bleak,” he said, starkly honest. “I travelled to earn coin enough to survive. I killed monsters and was spat on by humans. Occasionally I saved enough coin to pay for a whore. The only kind touches I knew were paid for. I had one or two people I would call friendly acquaintances and that was it. You brought laughter in my life. You treated me like a person. And now – you love me,” he said, voice hoarse like the words pained him. “It is because of you that I have what I do with Ciri. Jaskier, there will never come a time when having you in my life will be too much. I will do anything to keep you safe and whole and mine.”

“That’s all I want,” she confessed. “I’m just afraid. Afraid you’ll get tired of me. Afraid I’ll put you in danger, or Ciri. And honestly, Geralt, at the best of times I annoyed you! I talk too much, and I’m constantly working on songs, and I get easily distracted, or start bar fights, or spot some fuzzy creature that turns out to want to eat me, or –“

“I like your talking. I like your songs. You’re never distracted from anything important. I don’t actually mind bar fights. And the fuzzy creatures don’t always want to eat you.” He kissed the top of her head. “The only reason I was annoyed was because I liked it and didn’t want to like it, because I kept waiting to lose it. Witchers aren’t meant for relationships. We’re meant to kill monsters and collect coin. You changed that. Never say you’re too much again. You made life worth living. Do you think I want to go back to just – existing? You showed me more and I am too greedy to ever wish to give it up.”

“I didn’t do all that much.”

“You did more than you know. Do you know, you’ve never once smelled like fear with me? That never happens. People are always at least a little afraid of me. Even though I punched you when we first met, you still weren’t afraid of me.”

Jaskier sniffed. She was admittedly rather damp around the eyes, but she thought she was entitled. “It wasn’t that much of a punch. My sister hit much harder.”

“Well, your family are assholes.”

She laughed a little, finally, and looked up. “Yes they are. Thank you,” she said simply. “I know talking isn’t your favorite thing.”

He stopped her mouth with a kiss. “I don’t dislike it. I’m just not very good at it.”

“You’ve gotten much better at it, witcher-mine.”

A knock at the door interrupted the moment. “Bath is ready!” a voice called.

Geralt looked torn. Jaskier pressed a smiling kiss to his mouth. “Let’s go have a wash. It’s best when the water is still hot.” She slid out of bed to pull her dirty travel clothes on and held her hand out to him. “Wash my back for me?”

“I’ll wash any part you like.”

“Oh, good. I have lot’s of dirty parts that could use attention.”


	14. Chapter 14

Her performance that night was well attended. She dared to play many of the rowdier, bawdier songs in her repertoire, and a female bard playing dirty songs was enough of a novelty to draw a crowd. The men of the crowd were generous with their coin. They tried to be generous with their bottom pats and pinches, but Jaskier kept within a close radius to Geralt and his glowering dampened over amorous spirits. Jaskier made a point of taking her break seated on his lap to really drive the point home, and though there were a few disappointed grumbles, none of the men present showed signs of behaving as Rolf had done. Geralt didn’t even need to flex his muscles at them. Her take was even good enough to have their clothes sent out to be properly laundered.

When they were packing up the horses to leave the following morning, they were approached by an older man. The grief in his eyes told Jaskier that this was something for Geralt, though the man seemed to hesitate at first to say what was wrong. Jaskier had seen this before - when a loved one had vanished, and the neighbors just assumed the person had run off, but the family knew different.

“Who’s gone missing?” she asked gently.

The man pulled his hat off and twisted the battered thing in his gnarled hands. “M’ wife. Been married thirty years this past winter. ‘twas a hard winter, an’ folks think she took off back to her kin down south. I know better. She’d never leave me an’ our boys. Not with no word.” He stuffed a hand into his pocket and withdrew a painfully small purse. “I can get more, if’n that ain’t enough.”

Geralt waved the purse away. “I take payment after the job is done. What was your wife up to when she went missing?”

The old man wiped his nose on the back of his hand and stuffed the purse back in his pocket. “’twas a hard winter, like I said. Lean. She wanted to see if there was early mushrooms growin’ down by the pond. It’s damp an’ shaded there, good for mushrooms. She went lookin’ five days ago.”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt. She already had a good guess as to what had happened, but Geralt would want to examine the area first.

Geralt nodded. “Alright. Point me towards this pond.” They took the man’s directions and mounted up. They found the pond with no trouble. Trees surrounded it almost all the way around. When the leaves came in, it would be a cool, idyllic spot to visit and escape the summer heat. The water was remarkably clear to Jaskier’s eye. Too often small ponds tended to be clouded with mud. This one was clear enough to see the rocky bottom and water plants, swaying with the faint motion of the water. Tiny minnows darted back and forth.

Geralt urged her well back from the water’s edge. She stayed with the horses as he got down and began examining the soft ground around the trees. He paused beside some dense foliage and bent to retrieve something from under it. When he walked back to her, she saw it was a small woven basket – perfect for mushroom picking. “Drowners?” she asked unhappily.

“Yes. If the winter was rough for more than this family, there would have been little for the drowners to scavenge from the town refuse pile.”

Jaskier took the basket from him. There were a handful of mushrooms rotting in the bottom. “I hate drowners,” she said. “They always pick on people who are alone. Hardly seems fair.”

Geralt grunted and pulled his sword. “Stay back. They shouldn’t target you here with the horses, but don’t take chances.” She nodded agreement and stayed firmly up on Rascal’s back while Geralt went back to the water’s edge. He walked slowly around the pond, pretending distraction. When he was on the far side of the pond from her and the horses, he turned his back to the water and bent like he was examining something on the ground. The still water exploded in a shower, three drowners leaping out at his seemingly unprotected back. Geralt moved like lightening, whirling and slicing with his sword. She wrinkled her nose. Even from where she was sat, she could make out the spray of dark slime splattering the ground. So much for having their clothes laundered.

The fight was quick. Though the drowners had quickly realized that Geralt was no helpless old woman to be devoured at their leisure and had turned to flee back into the water, Geralt was even faster. He literally cut the legs out from under them then followed up by cutting their heads off. Jaskier rummaged in one of Geralt’s packs for the empty leather satchel he kept there. The thing always smelled; it had served as the container for too many monster parts over the years for the smell to ever be scrubbed out.

As Geralt dragged the corpses away from the water to burn them, Jaskier circled around towards him. He accepted the sack she tossed him with a grunt and stuffed one of the heads into it. He burned the other two. “Small pack,” she observed.

“Small pond. They were young, too. Must have moved in over winter.”

Jaskier eyed the water. “Do you think his wife is in there?”

“Not enough of her to be worth searching for.” He glanced up as he wiped his blade clean. “He wouldn’t want to see what’s left, Jas. Let the basket be enough.” She nodded a little sadly. It was always rather tragic when they couldn’t bring back anything for a proper burial.

The old man was stoic when they returned the basket with its rotting mushrooms to him and nodded once in satisfaction at the drowner head they dumped to the street. The day was well begun, and enough people were around and watching to carry the story through the whole town by lunch. Jaskier hoped the gossipers would have the grace to apologize, but she knew small town folk well enough to doubt it. The whole lot of them owed their lives to the man for his persistence. There was a song in there somewhere, for once less about Geralt and more about the quiet strength of the man’s love.

They finally set out again and Jaskier waited until they were well on the road before finally giving voice to her curiosity. “So, do we actually have a destination in mind?”

Geralt hummed thoughtfully. “I had hoped to have a better answer for your ability. I planned to find somewhere to hole up for you to practice. As it stands, I don’t want you to try until we’re back at Kaer Morhen where Yennefer can shift you back to normal if something goes wrong.”

“So back to the Keep?”

“It’s too early. If I’m seen going there during the summer months, there could be questions.”

“So, we travel and take contracts, keep an ear out for gossip that Nilfgaard is hunting you.”

“That was the plan last year. It’s been long enough that I’m surprised we haven’t already heard rumors.”

“We’ve been pretty occupied so far this spring, and pretty far north of the Nilfgaardians before that. Maybe we should edge south, skim Sodden to see if we can pick anything up.”

“Hmm.” It was one of his considering noises, so Jaskier let him be. He was the planner between them. She had always drifted, going where the music took her. She pulled her lute out and began to play with different melodies for her new song. It should be mournful, yes, but also romantic. It should chastise those who would besmirch a good woman’s name, but it couldn’t be too heavy handed about it or the gossiper’s guilt would have them tuning it out without hearing the lesson in it. Maybe some imagery around the man’s hands would help – the hands of most country folk aged much like that old man’s hands had done, until they were gnarled with a lifetime of hard work, strong and steady.

She noticed when Geralt edged them onto a road that would take them southwest, and smiled.


End file.
